


Blackberry Stone

by IspeakfortheQueen



Category: Oz - L. Frank Baum
Genre: F/F, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Magic, TFW Your Early Childhood and Magic are Subjected to the Whims of Political Upheaval, complex PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23150416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IspeakfortheQueen/pseuds/IspeakfortheQueen
Summary: Or Dealing with Your Repressed Childhood Trauma and Allowing Yourself to Be Vulnerable with Your Hard Won Found Family in Oz1/20/21 Update- Chapter 10 - Running some errands in the Quadling Country
Relationships: Dorothy Gale/Princess Ozma, Patchwork Girl/Scarecrow
Comments: 14
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I know Over the Rainbow isn't finished but here is a sequel/spiritual sequel/multi-chapter companion piece. You don't have to read the unfinished one if you don't want to. 
> 
> All you need to know is that:  
> a) Ozma and Dorothy are adults unless otherwise specified in the text. In the first two chapters of this Ozma is younger. Chapter 8 is a flashback taking place between books 4 and 5 as well. It will make sense as you read, this will not be as experimental as the first story.
> 
> b) Outside of Oz world it's the mid to late 1920's-ish but that's only relevant in understanding the non-magical technology they have access to and the sort of clothes they'd be wearing.

It is hard to focus on lessons.

The young princess’ eyes wander away from her stack of history books and settle on the arched window and the blossoming cherry tree outside of it.

There is no one else in this stuffy corner of the Sorceress' grand library. The princess imagines that she could easily go to the window without anyone noticing her and climb onto the branches of the tree. She imagines how pleasant the boughs would be to sit in and how perfect a place it would be to hide from boring lessons.

The lessons wouldn't be so boring if they weren't in books. There are other ways of learning. Wandering about the city and Glinda's palace and talking to different people about their lives is a good way to learn new information about the world. Lectures, are a perfectly respectable way of learning things. Professor Wogglebug is thoroughly educated and gives lively ones regularly in the city. He’s gathered a little group of thinkers and like minded educators and Ozma is in the process of allocating the resources to build a university for them to give their lessons at. In the meantime, Glinda is doing what she can to make sure the princess is caught up with the history of the world and what being the "Regent of the Land of Oz" entails. Glinda likes books, so books it is. 

Ozma looks down at the text and tries to grasp the meaning of the words in front of her. They having meaning, she knows as much. Ozma has known that written words have power from the moment old Mombi sat Tip down at the kitchen table and had Tip practice letters on a slate. The book in front of her is about past kings and queens of Oz and their accomplishments and contributions to the country but the words are empty of any real meaning. As far as Ozma is concerned, these kings and queens are long dead and therefore have little to do with what is happening right now. What is happening right now is that the current regent could be sitting in a tree and listening to the sound of the bees collecting pollen. She needs to finish this chapter before going downstairs to her magic lessons with Glinda but there seems to be an endless amount of pages.

Her eyes glaze over the words and finally she realizes she’s been looking at the partial phrase “Pastoria II’s political views had” for several minutes. She’ll finish this chapter and then go downstairs for magic lessons and then dress for supper and then have supper, dessert, perhaps take a walk, prepare for bed and wake up to another day of Glinda’s endless tutoring. Ozma wishes Glinda would give her more time, it’s been less then a year since she found out she was a princess after all.

“Pastoria II’s politcal views had-“

The same phrase refocuses in front of her. Not the Pastoria that’s her father, but some other Pastoria from how many generations back she’s forgotten and she can’t bring herself to flip back to the page in the back of the book with all the lineages and family trees and lengths of reigns. Ozma can’t bring herself to want to finish this chapter.

"Pastoria II's political views had-" nothing to do with her or this lovely afternoon. 

She yawns and stretches. The window with the glorious cherry tree is still there and she eyes the closed door Glinda had disappeared from a little over half an hour ago. 

The blossoms smell sweeter than she expected and shake their tiny petals into Ozma’s hair as she pulls herself up through the branches. This is much more satisfying than sitting in that stuffy corner of the library. She wonders if Professor Woggelbug’s progressive teacher friends will teach a course on tree climbing. Ozma thinks she should be a guest lecturer on the topic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was posted in my one shot/warm up collection "Merry Old Land" when I was warming up to the idea of writing a story about Ozma's relationship to magic. I've tweaked it a bit and it fits in the timeline of Over the Rainbow if you'd like to treat it as a part of that.

On the marble tabletop is a delicate crystal vase and in the vase is a pink rose. Its petals begin to tremble in the still air. The Sorceress waits patiently for the Princess to find the magic to perform the spell. With enough experience the Princess will not have to dig so deep to find it and she will have magic on the tip of her fingers to use at her command. That is the Sorceress' hope. For now the Princess uses a silver wand as a conduit instead of her body. (The Princess has been using the wand for some time now but the Sorceress can see that she will be using it for a while yet.)

The Princess’s brows furrow as she extends the wand to the rose. She is to turn it into a poppy. A simple transformation spell. The Princess had excelled at transportation spells, especially long distance transportation spells to move objects from one location to another in the blink of an eye, and regularly employed them in sending correspondences to countries across the deserts. She could even make slight alterations to the properties of magical objects, such as the Magic Belt and the Magic Picture, to suit her needs. (The Sorceress had read in her Book of Records that Dorothy no longer had to make a signal to the Magic Picture to arrive in Oz, she simply had to wish to be in Oz and the Magic Belt would transport her, even when Ozma wasn’t wearing it.) ((It has yet to be used for this purpose but Glinda is certain it will succeed.))

Easy and practical transformation spells, however, still prove a difficult task. (It is turning a flower into a different flower, it is not like she is turning an owl into an elephant.)

There is too much tension in the Princess’s shoulders and her grip on the wand is too tight. (The Sorceress will correct her on these at another time.)

The stem of the rose wriggles in the air. There is too much fire in the Princess’ eyes for this sort of beginner's magic. This spell will be easier when she is older and has formed a better image of herself. For now the Princess is a moody teenager frustrated and distrustful of her own powers. She is a child too used to seeing magic as a threat. (This test is not to measure the Princess’ skill but to let the Sorceress understand how long they must wait to try again.)

There is a sudden burst of green smoke and the shaking petals fall off the rose. The stem shoots up and curves around itself. The vase that once held a rose now holds the sharp and angry vine of a blackberry bramble. No blossoms or fruit, just jagged leaves and large thorns. (The Sorceress will give credit where credit is due, it is a successful transformation.)

The Sorceress looks at her pupil hoping that she can be pleased with what she’s done but it is clear from the Princess’ still knitted eyebrows that the bramble was not the intended effect. “Perhaps it did not want to be a poppy,” the Princess says tersely. (The test proves what the Sorceress has long suspected and is therefore successful. The transformation lessons can wait a while yet.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written as the one shot "On Parenthood" from "Merry Old Land". It's much different here. I decided to post these three chapters at once since I like how they read together. There will be more but I still need to detangle some of the details and logistics. I do have most of the middle outlined and a majority of the ending written so it will be up in time.

It is one of her earliest memories. There is the dappled sunlight making patterns on the trunk of an apple tree and there is the smell of rotting fruit. She, a boy child then, with short pants and tanned and scabby knees, is pulling at the little blades of grass that run along the exposed tops of the roots. Dirty purple skirts and worn work boots move with an old and hunched body over the caked dry dirt. The child looks up to see their caretaker collecting bitter black apples into a basket. The fruit is not good to eat fresh but the old woman looks the child in the eye, something she only does before raising her oak staff or willow switch, and bites into the fresh picked black apple on the spot.

Ozma hasn’t been back since becoming a princess but she still sees it in dreams. A wooden farmhouse painted purple with witch’s charms hanging around the front porch, wind chimes ringing and sun bleached animal bones that clatter in the wind. She smells it in dreams too. Dried plants and roots hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes Glinda uses the same ingredients in spell work and Ozma is back in that witch’s kitchen.

There was a garden filled with vegetables. Turnips and artichokes, rutabagas and purple carrots. Dark tomatoes and eggplants on a vine and every year enough purple potatoes and red cabbage to make one sick. The Princess does not allow the kitchen staff to serve her cabbage. On travels to the Gilikin Country, she will eat it out of politeness to her hosts, but she will still feel hungry after the meal.

There was the herb garden, with loads of sage and rosemary and lavender and other things witches need. In her childhood, Ozma had done well to avoid this place but in dreams she finds herself there and wakes up at the site of muddied purple skirts. There was another garden she was not allowed to touch for the plants that grew there were all poisonous and while the old woman did not treat her charge well, she was careful to not let the child die. 

On the borders of the land there were brambles, thick and spiky and impassible. Once the child tried to run away from her caretaker, but whatever distance was traveled away from the house, the child never arrived at the blackberry thicket and always returned to the house, as if the Earth had been placed on some rotating stage. Ozma knows now that this was done by magic to keep her on the witch's property but the effect consistently shows up in her dreams. Still, in the late summer months, the bramble was full of blackberries, plump and juicy and sweet as the sweetest spring water. In August the Princess craves them and rides out to a Gilikin farm (far and in the opposite direction from the witch's house) to pick them. It’s an annual event. She brings her royal retinue and they picnic afterward.

In the Princess’ memories there is the freedom of hiding in the fields near the edges of the bramble. Big fields of tall grass were excellent for hiding and the child had honed hiding to a well polished skill. The old woman had always said it was Tip’s curse and Ozma still does not know if that was meant figuratively or literally. When he was meant to collect firewood, Tip would hide in the canopy of a great oak tree and watched a bird tend to its nest. Tip could squeeze himself in the space between the house and the garden shed to escape any foul smells brewing in the kitchen. Tip could had hide behind the wood pile when the old woman was particularly frustrated with the world and needed to unleash her anger. Tip had hidden in the rows of purple corn and waited until the lavender sky turned midnight blue and had counted all the stars. 

It is difficult to count stars in the city, between its endless glow and how its towers and spires rise out of the landscape as if to say, "Here I am! Here I am!" Ozma revels in the unnerving luxury of visibility and still there are some days when Ozma yearns to hide again, but it seems all her childhood curses have worn off. Perhaps it is because she is all grown now and sometimes she thinks that perhaps the world is not as cruel as an old witch. Some days the Princess patiently goes through the motions of the day and anxiously waits for the exposure of the fact that she is just a farm child and not worthy of her position. It is, she realizes when she takes the time to think about it, a silly, unfounded fear. Dorothy had been a farm child too once and in Ozma's mind, Dorothy is worthy of everything.

In the Gilikin blackberry fields, Ozma’s friends smile, pleased at being able to take such a marvelous outing. They compliment Ozma on her skill at finding the best and biggest berries, buried deep in the hard to reach crevices of the thicket. Afterwards they spread out the big checkered blanket in a field of cropped grass. They rest and talk and those who have the need to eat take lunch. Dorothy is radiant as she lays in the sunshine and Ozma cannot help but lay down beside her. She presses her face in the corner of Dorothy’s shoulder and neck and allows the Sun to pour his rays over them.


	4. Chapter 4

Dorothy is dreaming. Of what she doesn’t quite know. It’s not a terribly important dream but it is the sort of dream that’s full of nice colors and warm feelings. Suddenly there’s a shout and she’s plunged right out of it like plunging her face into cold water and she finds herself laying in the bed she fell asleep in. It is not her bed, rather Ozma’s luxurious pile of green velvets and satin. Dorothy is awake and the shouting repeats itself in her ear and the sheets beside her are moving and to her dismay she realizes what is happening.

She moves over to where Ozma is twisting herself in the bedsheets and yelling out some half finished thought into the bed curtains.

This is not the first time Dorothy has woken to this.

Dorothy has learned the best way to deal with this is to pull Ozma into her arms and kiss her forehead and tell her that she’s not wherever she thinks she is and that she’s in bed with her. The first time was shortly after Dorothy had taken up spending nights in Ozma’s chambers. Dorothy had tried to shake her awake but it only ended with Ozma yelling louder and Dorothy had to fetch the maid for help but by the time she and the maid had returned, Ozma was asleep again. When asked in the morning Ozma could not remember the incident at all and insisted that she had slept soundly all night long. 

It has only happened a handful of times since and it doesn’t happen every night. Once in an odd blue moon really. Each morning afterwards Ozma is insistent that she slept fine or that she didn’t have any dreams to speak of.

Dorothy now shifts to hold Ozma until she falls back asleep. Dorothy quietly smooths down her hair down. Tonight is different though. Ozma inhales and her eyes change. She looks up at Dorothy. Dorothy knows she is awake, really awake, and not still dreaming with her eyes open.

“Oh,” she breathes and Dorothy can feel her arms tremble. “Was it happening again?”

“Yes dear, but you are all right. You are here. We’re in bed together and there’s no one to bother you here.”

“Oh,” Ozma mutters, arms relaxing, lips pressing a kiss onto Dorothy’s cheek.

\- - -

In the morning over breakfast in the sitting room of the Royal Suite, Ozma looks up from a letters she’s reading and sips her tea. “I remember what my dream was about.”

Dorothy looks at her expectantly, “What was it?”

Ozma shakes her head dismissively and turns back to the papers. “It wasn’t anything awful. I dreamt I was at Mombi’s house.”

Dorothy nearly drops her toast. Ozma rarely speaks of Mombi except in recounting the tale of how Jack came to life to new comers and by now it is a long since memorized script. From what little she knows about it, Mombi’s house does not strike Dorothy as a pleasant place.

“Do you often dream of Mombi’s house?” she asks tactfully, reaching across for the jam.

Ozma shrugs, turning back to the mail. “No more often than you might dream of Kansas. Doesn’t everyone dream of their childhood?”

Dorothy knows that there is a world of difference between her memories of her beloved Kansas farm and the scarcely spoken realities of life at Mombi’s house. “Was it a good dream?” she asks.

Another shrug. Ozma opens another letter with a quick slice of a silver letter opener. “It was neither a good dream nor a bad dream. I simply dreamt that I walked from the porch to the little herb garden.”

“That’s what had you shouting like that?”

“The Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl have invited us to a party at the Scarecrow’s house. Should we go? It sounds like it should be amusing.”

Dorothy knows when Ozma wants to change the subject and turns her attention to the invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want this fic to read like an soundtrack-less art house film but also like oz, please bear with me while i find the balance


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol I may have to rearrange the chapter order to give a neater linear flow lol but I'm gonna keep it how it is until I figure out some more stuff. I know what the final design of this quilt of a fic will look like, and I know the overall colors and patterns of all the pieces/chapters, I'm just at the part where I'm tacking the pieces to the board to see what looks best together.

Glinda had not been pleased when she discovered the arrest of the Munchkin boy named Ojo. She had never been pleased at all with Ozma’s general ban on magic. She admonished the princess in a strongly worded correspondence, sent the night before the trial.

_“I know my words will not dissuade your opinions on the use the magical arts. It is true that as a ruler your obligation is to decide if magic is being used justly and the punishments for those who use it to harmful ends. I remind you that it is also true that your people are fairy folk and have the right to practice their innate magic freely.”_

_“I implore you to pardon your ‘prisoner’ who does not harness magic directly and only seeks to collect magical ingredients out of purely good intention.”_

Ozma will take the details of Glinda’s plea for Ojo’s innocence to heart, but she will not touch the legal restrictions on magic work she has put in place.

\- - - 

After it was all over and Ojo’s uncle is restored from his petrified state, the Shaggy Man had wanted to send stories from Oz over wireless telegraph to some historian in California to be recorded. He had been putting together a manuscript pertaining to the trials and adventures of Ojo and the Patchwork Girl. A few days after the final court session regarding the case, Ozma had found herself seated on the cushion of a bay window in her chambers looking out over the gardens. Dorothy was sitting beside her, going through the Shaggy Man’s notes and adding her own details. She had asked Ozma for her perspective of the trial and Ozma felt obliged to explain her reasoning behind some of her decisions.

“Doctor Pipt only created his version of the powder of life in the first place to help his wife. 'Make a patchwork girl to help with the housework that becomes a burden in old age.' His intentions were good. His execution, however, creating a whole new living creature whose sole purpose was to take on unwanted labor with no worry of the consequences, was foolish. I have since alerted the ruler of the Munchkins to the needs of his more isolated citizens and have allocated the resources for better social services in the mountain community that the Pipts were a part of. Ojo and his uncle only went to the Pipts because they were starving and would not have been involved in this whole mess if it weren’t for that. If my people are taking part in actions I have decreed illegal then it means I am not giving them something that they need."

There had been a pause as Dorothy finished penciling in her transcription. Ozma was glaring distractedly out the window.

“Did Glinda really allow the Wizard to take Doctor Pipt’s magic away?” asked Dorothy.

“Of course not,” Ozma had said, mildly irked that this was the case. “She would never. Not in a thousand years.”

Ozma could hear Dorothy pause her writing and she knew that Dorothy was thinking. “Then why did _you_ have the Wizard take his magic away if Glinda would advise against it?”

Ozma blinked at her own furrow browed reflection staring back at her in the window glass. She tried to soften her face and turned to answer Dorothy. The pencil and papers were set aside on the cushions.

“Doctor Pipt gave me his word that he would not practice magic anymore, and at his age and after receiving his needed resources, I believe that he will keep his promise. The Wizard didn’t take his powers away. Only a person with very advanced magic skills can take away another’s magic.” _A person like Glinda_ , is what Ozma did not say. The concept of magic being taken away presented the flash of a memory of standing in a red tent, distracted by loving and doting friends while the acrid smell of magic being drawn out of an old woman seeped out from behind closed curtains. The memory came in a second and then it was gone and Ozma continued, “Our dear Wizard was once a stage magician you know, and despite all the real tricks that he has up his sleeves these days, his best power is still the ability to make a large crowd believe that whatever he says must be true.”

“Why pretend that he did it then?” Dorothy had asked.

“So that anybody who tries to practice foolish magic understands what they could be in danger of losing,” Ozma had replied. It was a trick as bad as one of the Wizard’s might have been back in the old days, but one she considered necessary. Ozma didn’t want to see whatever Dorothy’s expression might be so she looked back at the window until she heard the sound of papers shuffling again.

“This is an awful lot to put through Morse code,” said Dorothy finally, “I think much of it will have to be shortened.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's longer and more Ozzy in tone. Scraps is here as well as the usual cast of thousands. I've taken some liberties and made up quite a bit of new stuff, as you will see. 
> 
> I have all the themes and arcs straightened out and outlined and a few major chapters already written so I just need to fill in the rest. Unlike Over the Rainbow I know how this one ends so hopefully when Blackberry Stone is done I can go back with what I learned about these characters and finish the first fic. Thanks for reading!

Dorothy, long and lean, is sitting at her silver dressing table and getting ready for the party. She is pulling up her hair into a tidy bun at the nape of her neck and putting on a string of blue beads. She plays with the idea of wearing matching earrings before setting them back into her jewelry box and catches Ozma’s eyes in the mirror. Ozma knows she’s been caught watching. She steps forward into boudoir places a kiss on Dorothy’s cheek before turning to the mirror to adjust the poppies in her hair.

\- - -

The main roads through the Winkie Country are paved but the Sawhorse runs fast enough to still kick up a fair amount of dust. He turns the wagon onto a side road and soon it feels like the wagon is traveling through a dust storm. Or Ozma assumes it is what traveling through a dust storm is like. Ozma had once seen a sandstorm in the far distance when traveling the desert. Dorothy is more familiar with actual dust storms, Ozma supposes, but Ozma does not to make any mention of it to her. 

The wagon continues on and soon they are in sight of the tower that rises out over the yellow fields of wheat and corn. The Sawhorse turns onto another road, this one paved with yellow brick. There are a number of travelers on it and the Sawhorse slows only slightly. They are all traveling in the same direction as the Royal Red Wagon. Mostly they are Winkies from neighboring farms or villages, walking in on foot in their best dancing shoes and still others are riding in their own carts or buggies. Some bow politely as the royal retinue passes but most simply wave in a friendly and familiar manner.

It is the first warm night of early summer and the sun has not yet set when the Red Wagon pulls up into the drive of the Scarecrow’s glittering manor. 

Tik-Tok steps down from the wagon first with a helping hand from the Shaggy Man. As soon as the mechanical man touches the ground, the Shaggy Man leaps out and pulls a copper key from a ruffled pocket. He twists the key into Tik-Tok’s back three times. Tik-Tok gives his thanks before tipping his copper bowler to the various others arriving at the party.

Ozma steps down from the Red Wagon next. A breeze kicks up her skirts, making them flutter around her like petals on a long white flower. Dorothy, looking ever elegant in a powder blue robes de style dress, laughs at the sight of the yellow dust swirling into the cloud of white gauze. Ozma tries to roll her eyes and pretends to be put off but she knows Dorothy can see the gleam in her eye. Ozma extends a hand and helps Dorothy down from the wagon. It’s less of an offering of help (Dorothy rarely needs any) and more of an excuse to show off how neatly their hands fit together. Once Dorothy is out of the wagon, the remainder of the Royal Party alights from the wagon and arranges her feathers comfortably on Dorothy’s shoulder. 

“You two lovebirds get a move on, I want to see what insects the Scarecrow has about in his cornfield.”

“You could go by yourself if you’re in such a hurry,” says Dorothy.

“But it is much faster to ride,” says the Yellow Hen, “and besides this is a better vantage point to see people from.” 

The invitation sent by the Scarecrow and Scraps had left the nature of the party intentionally vague. Ozma knows that Oscar, that is, the Wizard, has been working with some artisans from across the land on some creative project on the Scarecrow’s property and Ozma has made the assumption that this is going to be the unveiling of whatever it is. Both the Oscar and the Scarecrow have kept it hushed and Scraps only ever answered Ozma's questions about it with more vexing riddles. Still, the mood of the crowd is cheerful and in the distance Ozma can see a group of people carrying instrument cases walking to the back of the house. One thing is certain: Tonight is going to be a light hearted evening full of friends and dancing and Ozma enjoys few things more than an excuse to dance with Dorothy.

The Sawhorse gives his word that he will be along as soon as he parks the wagon and shakes off his bridle.

The esteemed members of the royal court, ordinary farming neighbors, and other strange magical creatures are greeted at the door by the Scarecrow’s housekeeper. The small Winkie woman, a staple to the Scarecrow’s odd estate for as long as Ozma can remember the Scarecrow having an estate, directs the guests to an empty field behind the house, though the house would be open for those who wanted a rest from the festivities.

The field is full of yellow grass, such as the sort that grows in the Winkie Country in the summer and serves as a sort of lawn for the Scarecrow’s home. Dorothy has said that it reminds her of the dry Kansas grass during drought season, except that it does not “crackle beneath her feet”. Fairy lights have been strung across poles and there are a good number of chairs and round tablecloth covered tables for sitting. The people with the instruments are setting up near an area of flattened grass clearly meant for dancing.

Some of the guests are seen wandering down a fresh dirt path leading into the surrounding cornfields. The corn is still young and short enough to see what the path is leading to. Ozma’s eyes settle on an odd structure on the near horizon and smiles. Dorothy must see it too for she is laughing out loud. Ozma links arms with her and lets Dorothy lead them (and Bill) down into the cornfield.

The dirt path leads to a structure that looks like an oversized tomato shaped pincushion. Its rounded walls are painted red and the roof is made of green shingles, fanned out to form a star shaped stem. Green rain spouts run up and down the walls, clearly marking the different sections of the tomato. Sparkling in the sun are long golden pins sticking out of the roof, each with a different colored gemstone as their heads. Sapphire, ruby, amethyst, citrine, emerald; all the colors of Oz are represented. A couple of the pin heads have openings, suggesting that they are chimneys. There are skylights in the roof and wide windows with curtains that are, somehow predictably, made up of patchwork cloth.

“Oh I wonder who lives here,” the Shaggy Man says in a joking manner as Ozma, Dorothy, and Bill approach.

“So this is what our Wizard has been working on,” Ozma says while Dorothy and Bill go ahead get a closer look. From where Ozma stands she can see that the green rain gutters slide down the house into an odd little garden, the picket fence of which, is also made to look like glittering bejeweled pins. A section of the garden is filled with plots of cotton, flax, and hemp. Another larger section is empty save for one or two abstract sculptures that Ozma recognizes as the work of the sculptor who makes the busts for the palace gardens. On either side of the entry gate are two poles shaped like twin golden needles. Thread though the eyes of the needles are flowering vines growing blossoms in all number of colors.

The green door swings open (the doorbell next to it shaped like a thimble, of course) and the Wizard steps out onto the porch. Ozma notes that for such a short and wiry man Oscar still commands much of his old stage presence. His appearance alone gets the excited crowd to fall into hush.

He begins with much flourish and a wave of his black silk hat. “Ladies and gentlemen, animals and automatons, fairies and fellow mortals-"

“Oh get on with it!” A voice from inside the pincushion building, causing the audience to break into laughter.

“Ahem,” he straightens up, “Some of you hardworking artists, craftspeople, and tradespeople are in the know as to what has been happening here and some of you have been wondering just what on Earth has been going on over at the ‘Scarecrow’s field’. I will explain to the latter group in attendance just exactly what we’ve been up to here. Some months ago I was approached by the Scarecrow, who is thoughtful, and the Patchwork Girl, who is full of so many thoughts I can hardly keep up, as to how it would be possible to build a space for people who enjoy express themselves creatively to share ideas and create art together. As a long admirer of the arts I-“

“Oh you’re taking too long!” The door opens all the way and Scraps tumbles out onto the porch, her arms raising into the air, “We built a place where people can make art! A lot of people worked hard to help make this happen! Come see it so we can get the party started!” 

The party it seems is a house warming party turned grand opening party. Scraps had come to live with the Scarecrow on his farm and had a house built in similar style as his corncob tower but in short time realized that a person who did not have need to eat or sleep did not need a house for her own and half way through construction changed plans for it to become a place for people from around Oz to come and make art.

One of Scraps' tenets in life, of which she has many, is that every person has the right to express their self as they please (so long as no one gets hurt) (who doesn't deserve it), and this tenant is apparent in every aspect of the building. 

Upon entering, it is clear which parts of the building were designed by Scraps. The walls are covered in patches of wallpaper in every color and pattern, as if she couldn’t choose just one. The parts of the floor covered in carpet is made up of different swatches all connected together like a quilt. There are no bedrooms but rather a series of large spaces made to be something of an eclectic art studio. There are spinning wheels and spindles in different shapes and styles and a loom with a half finished tapestry of all colors of thread and yarn. There are shelves and shelves of fabric and yarn and against one wall a large table for piecing quilts and sewing projects. There’s already a dazzling pinwheel quilt made in fabrics that must have come from all over Oz. In a second room there is light let in by the skylights and windows and a wide wooden floor (each board made of a different wood or painted a different color varnish) for dancing. Along the walls of this room are easels and painting and drawing supplies. A third room, also well lit by skylights, has a kiln and pottery wheels. For those who would need it there is a kitchen and washrooms.

Though she had not been overly fond of the circumstances of the Patchwork Girl’s creation, nor the subsequent debacle of Ojo’s arrest and trial, Ozma cannot help but be delighted by Scraps as an individual. When given the choice to live wherever she liked, Scraps first chose to stick around the castle and sustain the friendships she had made in the royal court (most notably a very warm “friendship” that had blossomed between her and the Scarecrow). When she made court appearances others often expected that she should serve the role of jester, but Princess Ozma welcomed Scraps in council because she was not afraid to be frank about her opinions about rulings and traditions that did little to serve the people. When Scraps was not in the city she was known to wander around all corners of Oz looking for different unique sights and ways of thinking and doing things. When she is in the city, Scraps is known for putting on modern dance performances, encouraging children to engage in harmless pranks, and up until very recently, could be seen at the Wogglebug’s Athletic College teaching hands on workshops in conceptual, fiber, and performance arts. (Her visual work is not conventional but if anyone were to look at it and say, “Why anyone could do that!” she will reply with much enthusiasm and no hint of hurt, “Exactly!”) Ozma thinks that if she herself didn’t have to stick around the Palace with all her responsibilities, then she would love to travel and learn and teach and do as Scraps does (though perhaps with less poetry).

After the tour of the grand pincushion, Ozma and Dorothy make their way back through the cornfield to where the party is growing more lively.

“It was kind of the Scarecrow to let Scraps use his property for her new,” Dorothy pauses to think of the right word, “… house? Studio? Public arts center?”

“It’s wonderful isn’t it?” bursts Ozma excitedly. Her head is buzzing and brimming with the possibilities of different artists from all over Oz coming together to make different things. “But if I know Scraps, I doubt the Scarecrow had any say in whether or not his farm was going to be the spot for it. She probably announced it was going to happen and it did.”

“Let’s ask him,” says Dorothy, gesturing to where the Scarecrow is greeting guests near his house. At the moment he is talking with a beautiful young woman in a dress as bright and vibrant as the inside of the new building.

“Poly’s here!” gasps Dorothy.

The woman twirls around in a way that somehow displays an even brighter array of colors while also being the most elegant and controlled movement ever seen. 

“Dot!” The woman beams and it’s as if the whole radius around her face is like the sun itself. Her eyes seem to reflect nothing but the color of the deepest sky. Elemental fairies, but especially those completely in tune with their own nature, are never anything less than gorgeous.

Ozma watches on as Dorothy and the Rainbow Fairy hug like old friends ( _and they are old friends_ , she must remind herself) and exchange a round of “It’s been too long!” “Whatever are you doing here? There hasn’t been any rain.”

“So glad you could make it!” says the Scarecrow with a clumsy bow to Ozma.

“I’m so happy you invited us,” smiles Ozma. “We just came back from seeing Scraps. I think it’s a marvelous thing that she's doing!”

“Yes, she is full of brilliant ideas,” the Scarecrow smiles and puffs out his chest with pride.

“Scarecrow, please settle something for us,” says Dorothy, drifting away from Polychrome and pressing her arm reassuringly on Ozma’s shoulder. “Did you offer for Scraps to set up so close to your house?“

“Or," Ozma leans in, "Did she tell you that it was just going to happen this way?”

The Scarecrow laughs and scratches his head with his floppy gloved hand, “I suppose we came to the agreement together. We wanted to be close together and then she had the idea for a space for the arts and I was rearranging the fields anyway and it all just worked out nicely.”

“I bet it’s nice having her nearby,” says Dorothy with a grin that makes Ozma blush. The Scarecrow, to Ozma's surprise, catches Dorothy’s meaning and only laughs.

“Have you seen the new building yet?” asks Dorothy turning to Poly.

“Not yet, should I?”

“Oh, you’ll adore it,” says Ozma.

\- - -

So the nature of the party is then seemingly settled. Guests arrive and are lead to the new structure and marvel at the display of fairyland architecture. There will be dinner for those who require food and dancing for all afterwards, because, as those in attendance agree, it is not a true fairyland party until there is dancing. The middle of the party is where things take a turn. Of course it takes a turn, thinks Ozma, because it’s a gathering partly hosted by Scraps and the Patchwork Girl would never take part in something so straight forward.

Dinner is winding down and everyone is eager to start the dancing. All eyes start to veer towards the members of the band who are finishing up their plates and gradually moving towards their instruments. “Do you think they’ll start soon?” whispers Dorothy giving a quick glance to the fiddle player at the next table over. Ozma is feeling relaxed and though this may be from her one glass of spiked lacasa, she is all too familiar with the sensation of being in a group of mostly fairy folk who are anxious for the music at a party to start. That Dorothy is a part of them makes something in her chest swell.

The last band member sets aside her glass of lemonade and walks over to where her instrument is waiting and while not everyone is taking about it, it does seem as if everyone is holding their breath. The unwelcome interruption of silverware clinking on glass makes the whole crowd lurch as if they were all aboard an unsteady boat.

The first voice to rise over the collective groaning is Scraps' exasperated rhyme: 

“You know I love you but we all beseech,  


Please! Please! Please no speech!”

The Scarecrow is standing on a chair at one of the tables with the perpetrating glass (empty, not matching all the other glasses, and seemingly conjured up just for this purpose) and spoon in hand. 

“Speech!” shouts Nick’s unmistakable tinny voice. 

“I want to thank everyone for coming here tonight!” says the Scarecrow, “I know our friends have worked hard constructing the new building. A toast to our friend the Wizard who used his magic and woodworking skills to help raise such a fine structure!”

“To the Wizard!” the crowd raise their glasses while Oscar stands from his seat beside Ozma. He gives a most theatrical bow and a wave of his hat.

“A toast to the hardworking craftsmen and carpenters and artists from all over Oz who helped us put this together. You will always be welcomed here to put together more of your wilder ideas!”

They raise a toast to the craftsmen and then to the carpenters and then to the artists, who, when they stand, are indeed are dressed in all the colors of Oz.

“And a toast to Scraps! Who had this whole idea to begin with!”

“To Scraps!” shouts everyone and the Patchwork Girl gives a bow and backflips onto the chair beside the Scarecrow.

“And a toast to this handsome fellow for being so agreeable with the plans and also for helping host this party!”

“To the Scarecrow!” they all cheer. Ozma has just taken in the last sip of her lacasa when Scraps sings out:  


“Also a week ago we got married, 

But nobody likes a dry ceremony, 

So instead of subjecting you to that boring schmaltz, 

We’ll welcome you to a roaring waltz! 

Hit it!”

Ozma splutters on her drink. She can feel it go up to her nose and she coughs into her napkin as the band starts up with such a fervor that nobody knows whether they should start dancing or give another toast. All around is complete happy chaos. Ozma looks to her right but Dorothy is already out of her chair and pushing through the crowd that has gone to congratulated the apparently newly weds, one half of whom is trying to drag her partner onto the dance floor.

Oscar is still in his seat to her left, tapping his fingers on the table in time with the upbeat music. “I don’t suppose you knew anything about this development?” asks Ozma. He only smiles and shrugs his shoulders. Ozma rolls her eyes in mock annoyance but she can't stop the smile that's spreading across her face. 

The Scarecrow is Dorothy’s oldest friend in Oz and of course she’ll want to congratulate him as as soon as she can. Ozma on the other hand, can see Scraps’s plan of action and meets the Patchwork Girl and the Scarecrow at the entrance to the dance floor. “Not that it would have stopped you, but you have my royal blessing,” the Princess says cheerfully.

“Thanks!” bounces Scraps.

“We really do appreciate it,” grins the Scarecrow with a playful salute.

Ozma gives a polite bow and, brief royal duties now taken care of, tries to find Dorothy. There’s a squeeze on Ozma’s shoulder and a “Shall we dance, darlin’?” in her ear.

\- -

Whether it is on the polished ballroom floor of the Palace or on the trampled grass behind the Scarecrow’s corncob house, there is nothing Ozma relishes more than a dance with Dorothy. The perk of not being the host of the party is that Ozma can have as many dances as she likes with the other princess. No slow waltzes with dignitaries or awkward shuffles with ambassadors as so often happens at Palace balls. The band plays tunes from all over Oz. The swing of the music and the outdoor setting, Ozma realizes, is similar to the Kansas barn dances Dorothy has described to her, which might explain why Dorothy’s smile is brighter than usual. Or perhaps Dorothy is just happy for her friends. It could be as simple as that too. Whatever it is, Dorothy has been smiling without stop and Ozma can’t get enough of it. 

Of course others do want dances with the two princesses. It's not everyday the average Ozite from the country can dance with a princess and as well as this there are so many old friends here. Ozma and Dorothy dance with Jack and Nick and the Wizard and the Shaggy Man and yes even the Scarecrow and later Dorothy agrees to a dance with Polychrome. When this happens Ozma sits at one of the tables to take a rest. 

She drinks some water and watches Poly lead Dorothy across the grass. Ozma once had tried to court Polychrome, some years ago when she was a little younger and Dorothy was away in Kansas. Poly was a good sport about it but the princess didn't really know what she was doing. It ended shortly and on good terms. There had been something about Polychrome that didn’t quite fit with Ozma and Ozma could never quite put her finger on what it was. Perhaps it was Polychrome’s brightness or her overwhelming fairy charm or her certainty with her place in the universe as the _Daughter of the Rainbow_. Perhaps it was simply that she wasn’t Dorothy and that at the end of the day no matter how far away from Oz she was, Dorothy always had the stronger claim to Ozma’s heart. 

“I thought fairies never tired of dancing.” There is the sound of straw rustling as a figure in blue sits beside Ozma. 

“I thought that scarecrows never tired at all,” Ozma replies with a smile. “This is quite the party.” 

“Do you like it?” the Scarecrow sounds chuffed, “I wasn’t sure about the music at first, songs and musicians from all over Oz, but I say its grown on me.” 

“I think its marvelous that the people of Oz are finding ways to work together and make new things,” says the Princess. “Places that stay the same too long grow dull, don’t you think?” 

“Quite right,” says the Scarecrow.

“Congratulations, again on your marriage. It came as a surprise, but a surprise is the least one can expect from Scraps.”

“Certainly so,” the Scarecrow sighs in adoration. Ozma follows his gaze to where Scraps is performing a lively dance with Nick. “It certainly surprised me when she proposed, but as you said, things get dull when they stay the same too long.”

Ozma laughs, “Of course she proposed. I could not imagine it any other way.”

“It was a small ceremony and very spur of the moment. Nick was our witness. I worried that more people may have wanted to attend but Scraps pointed out that everyone important was coming over for this party anyway. We figured that as long as we made it a good one, no one would mind.”

“It doesn’t look like any of your guests mind. If anything it gives a reason to celebrate more than they would have before.”

The band sweeps into the next song and Poly and Dorothy remove themselves from the dance floor and find their way to Ozma and the Scarecrow.

Ozma can feel her own cheeks burn up as Dorothy sits boldly in her lap and wraps an arm around her neck. “Are you having fun?” asks Ozma. 

“A wonderful time,” says Dorothy kissing her on the cheek before leaning over to talk to the Scarecrow. 

Dorothy expresses no disappointment at missing her oldest friend’s wedding. Ozma finds herself impressed by the Scarecrow’s deep trust in his friends not minding not being at the actual ceremony. Dorothy and the Scarecrow and Polychrome continue talking while a small vision flickers through Ozma’s mind: Dorothy and her in white. They could do that too couldn’t they? Elope and marry in a small Munchkin altar somewhere? No one would know, except perhaps Glinda and they could exchange rings. It wouldn’t change anything. They share the same bed most nights and Dorothy has taken on many royal duties at the palace. It would only be a way of saying, “I am yours forever” to each other. It is a nice vision, but Ozma knows that she and Dorothy are too public of figures to do that without upsetting someone. The Scarecrow and Scraps can trust in their friends to not be upset and apologize to everyone else with a party. Ozma would have to trust that the entire kingdom wouldn’t be upset and the makeup party would have to be so big that they might as well do the whole thing properly but- now that she’s thinking of it (now that she's looking at how much Dorothy is glowing right now), that wouldn't be so bad either. 

Ozma balances Dorothy on her knees and plays with the loose hairs falling out of her once tidy bun. The whole of Nonestica can see their hearts belong to each other already. Still, it is something to consider. Just an idea for the future. 

\- - -

It is very early morning when the royal party finds their way back to the Emerald City. Dorothy falls asleep with her head on Ozma’s shoulder. The Shaggy Man and Oscar sit side by side in front of them looking up at the stars scattered across the sky. The Shaggy Man is saying something about constellations. Bill is in Dorothy’s lap with her head beneath her wing. Tik-Tok’s gears are gently ticking, but it seems even the mechanical man is looking on the calm cool night with wonder.

\- - -

The two Princess’ collapse into the same bed at near four in the morning. Dorothy does not want to bother with waking up Toto or break the news to him that he missed quite a lot. She kicks her shoes off next to the bed and places her party dress and beads carefully on a chair in the corner of Ozma’s bedchamber and slips into the bed. Ozma can’t find the words to express how full her heart is right now and is glad that sleep overtakes her before she feels the need to express it out loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Somehow I think it's important to not include the term "carriages" when writing about travel in Oz? Like wagons, carts, and buggies, even thought they sometimes mean the same thing, are somehow more specific to the Americana tone of it.
> 
> -The song that I imagine playing when Scraps says "Hit it!" and Ozma chokes on her drink is "Flight of the Passing Fancy" by The Squirrel Nut Zippers starting about 20 seconds in.


	7. Chapter 7

Another flying dream. Ozma floats above her bed and above the palace and the city. She is being drawn north. It’s almost expected. She doesn’t often remember her dreams, with the exception of when she is dreaming, and in that dream space this sort of travel is routine.

Where will she go tonight? The barn? The briar patch? Old Mombi’s house? Oh let’s not go somewhere so dreadful, let us visit some friends first.

She averts her dreamtime flight, lands in the Munchkin Country. Now is the time when she forgets that this is a dream, which is the time when dreams really work their magic. She sees a farm with a blue barn and a house with little forget-me-not flowers painted all over it. Beside it an orchard of toffee trees.

Jinjur is home and Ozma takes tea with the former general and her nervous husband in their sunlit kitchen. Jinjur pours the teapot, which produces not tea but a distressing flow of dead bees. Ozma takes a sip and crunches on the bees. It is not dissimilar to eating popped corn. “Have you met my sister?” asks Jinjur, blowing on her teacup to cool it. When she does so, the bees shake awake and fly away out the open window. Ozma tries the same but her bees stay dormant. “My sister is visiting from out of Oz.”

Ozma is too preoccupied to figure out why her own bees won’t come to life when Jinjur gestures to the right of Ozma. Dorothy is sitting next to Ozma, knitting with long blue needles. 

“Oh! That’s not your sister. That's Dorothy!”

“That is my sister,” says Jinjur with an intense glare. “She keeps bees, just like you or I or even my husband.”

“I do not keep bees,” says Ozma, confused.

“Oh. I think it is time you go then,” says Jinjur now rising from her seat at the table. As she does Ozma feels tired and decides to go home. 

She goes home, in the way of dreams, by suddenly appearing at home. She takes off her purple cap and her mud stained shoes and tucks into the pallet by the hearth in the familiar round room.

There is a strong smell here that Ozma can't put her finger on. Has Dorothy tried some new perfume? No it is not Dorothy and it is too familiar to be new. She wonders if Dorothy will be coming to bed soon and realizes she has never seen Dorothy in this bed. The thought crumbles at a memory of watching Dorothy, just last night, not more than a few hours ago, braiding her long yellow-brown hair in the electric lamp light. But that was not this bed. That was her bed back in the city with the green comforters and velvet bed curtains. That was not this small corner tucked next to a gone cold cauldron and the smell of drying herbs and dense magic.

The image of her real bedroom and the image of her pallet in Mombi’s home criss-cross in her mental map of reality and dream space. Oh. She’s here again in this place that is not safe.

She looks around the room for any creeping sign of danger. She remembers other dreams like this. What will go wrong now that she’s here again? 

Like clockwork there is a tug at the collar of her shirt and she is lifted off the pallet. 

“What are you doing here?” says the disgusted voice of an old woman.

“I’m sorry!” Ozma is annoyed that her voice does not sound like her own, but that of a scared small child, “I don’t know why I keep coming here! Please!”

However hard she turns, she cannot catch sight of the witch. It is like her eyes are open but not.

There is a warm movement on Ozma's arm. It feels different from the grip on her collar and neck. It strokes up her shoulder and around and down her back and it feels… real.

A voice is in her ear, she can feel the vibrations of it travel down her jaw. “Darling you're alright.”

The grip on her collar loosens and the circular room fades and while there is the rhythmic sound of blood pulsing between her ears, Ozma feels herself floating and overwhelmingly safe until she is on the soft bedding of home again. 

The dream disappears from her consciousness. The dream space locks itself away neatly into a little box and buries the key deep into the dirt.

Ozma opens her eyes. It is dark. Dorothy has her arms wrapped around her, is sleeping deeply. The clock on the mantle strikes four in the morning. Ozma counts the chimes and then yawns and falls back asleep.

There are no more dreams for the rest of the night. Not that she often remembers her dreams anyway.


	8. Little Wizard Stories Part I (1908 - 1909)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Idk man, if a big chunk of my narrative identity was 'When I was a baby some dude sold me to a witch' I probably wouldn't be so immediately on board with welcoming said dude back into my life." ~ OR ~ The personal history of Ozma and Oscar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/15/20 UPDATE: This is chapter 8 in all of its entirety. If you read this chapter anytime between iAugust 2020 and December 15, 2020, you read something very different and incomplete.
> 
> This is another flashback chapter. A good portion of this takes place immediately after Chapters 15 ("Old Friends are Reunited") of Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz (1908). If you would like to reread Chapter 15 (it being the sort where Baum just has the characters sit around and recount the adventures of the previous books with fascinating inaccuracy), the book is in the public domain and on many websites.
> 
> A final note: The naming of the rulers ultimately comes from Gregory McGuire, but it's a detail so steeped into my Oz headcanons that at this moment in time I'm going to use it instead of figuring out something better. That being said: The source material for this story is in public domain EXCEPT that particular detail which belongs to McGuire so, as the elders say, "credit to the author where it is due".

Ozma had made up the story about witches dividing up the kingdom and overthrowing her grandfather. In hindsight it was full of logical fallacies and naive concepts of the nature of the world, but only the four of them were at the dinner table. Dorothy had so ardently vouched for the Wizard and his apparent change of heart (“He is just old and lonely and all by himself I think,” she had said amongst the roses of the greenhouse) but at the time Dorothy seemed to be much younger and still so much a child. Ozma couldn’t help but want to shield her from the whole truth of the Wizard’s role in shaping her own early life (though Dorothy would learn in time). As for Zeb, he would never stick around long enough to find out the whole story. That left only the Wizard and Ozma together knowing the finer accuracies of how Pastoria lost his throne.

There were some truths brought out in the story that the Princess and the Wizard built at the dinner table on the Wizard’s first night back in Oz. The princess’ ancestors were indeed titled “Oz” or “Ozma”, with informal names to determine one from the next. Her father had been Oz Pastoria, and she herself would be Ozma Tippetarius, though now she found herself as the only Ozma alive and with little desire to be called “Tippetarius” ever again. Ozma became her self-proclaimed name and title. The naming of the rulers and the land and the nickname the Wizard gave himself truly were a coincidence. The stage magician from Omaha, believing this coincidence to be a sign to implement his American right to “manifest destiny”, used his sleight of hand tricks and papier-mâché wonders to manipulate a population who had a tendency to defer stations of power to the strongest magic workers amongst them.

While Ozma’s half of the story was full of partial truths and outright lies that could be quickly and easily disproved, the half of the story that belonged to the Wizard displayed an absurd lack of knowledge of the culture and people he had conquered in the name of his own initials. (“They thought me a superior being,” he said with no trace of self doubt, to which Ozma had to suppress an eye roll.) The story told at the table did not say what the Wizard did to remove the pre-existing seats of power, nor did it give explanation as to why years ago a baby was given to a witch.

After dinner, after the meeting of old friends, when the guests decided to retire for the evening, the Princess walked with Dorothy to the floor where their respective rooms were located. She bade Dorothy good night and when Dorothy’s door had shut, Ozma went back downstairs.

Behind the throne room was the entrance to a tower that had been locked and unused for many years. Ozma had explored it once, using a transportation spell learned from Glinda to send herself into the top most room and back out again. The chamber inside had been dusty and stuffy and held only a dust covered bed and an empty work bench. She had hoped to find some of the Wizard’s masks or costumes that her friends had told her about, but it appeared anything of importance had been removed by the time the Wizard flew away in his balloon. Ozma had left the tower disappointed, especially since the energy expended to magically exit the tower meant that she had little left for her magic lessons in the following week.

Ozma now stood at the bottom of the tower and knocked on the gold gilt door.

There was silence and then the sound of descending footsteps. The door creaked open but all Ozma could see was the empty stone stairway.

“Who’s there?” asked the Wizard’s voice from behind the door.

“Princess Ozma.”

“Oh,” the Wizard’s voice sounded relieved and he slid out to stand in the doorway. He was still dressed for dinner in his green velvet coat. He was trying to hide something shiny and metal that was clutched in his hand. He bowed deeply, presenting her with the shiny dome of his head, “Your majesty.”

“I hope you have no reason to fear attackers while you are in this country, Wizard,” said Ozma evenly. “Though your story at dinner did leave many things unsaid about the last time you were here. Perhaps you have enemies I do not know about. You mustn’t keep secrets, I do not want the safety of my people, or those in my protection, at risk.”

The Wizard gave a guilty expression and Ozma, looking upon his weary face, did think he looked terribly old. “My apologies, your majesty. Being back in this place, well, I fall into old habits. I suspect you know, that not everyone considered me ‘wonderful’ or ‘great and terrible’, even when I was on the throne.” 

Ozma gave what she hoped was a stern look and held out the open palm of her hand. The Wizard handed her the silver letter opener he had been holding as a potential make-shift weapon. A brief glance at the object told her that it was as it appeared, an ordinary letter opener. Ozma regarded it curiously, but did not hand it back to the Wizard.

“Would you like to come in?” the Wizard gestured up the winding stairs of the tower.

“No, I would prefer to stay out here. I only wish to have a word with you.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“As you know I am great friends with Dorothy Gale. She speaks very highly of you and your reformation of character and I want to believe every word she says. I never knew you personally when you were on the throne, but my other good friends the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman did and during tonight’s gathering they also expressed that you are much changed from the time when they knew you.”

The Wizard blushed, “Your friends are keen observers. I like to think that I am much the same man that I was when I left Oz, but perhaps I am a little changed from my second time in the circus.”

“I trust the words of my dear friends but I have yet to form a full opinion of my own. What I know about you, besides what is written in the history books, is that when I was a baby you gave me to a witch and my life until a few years ago was not one I would wish upon any child.”

Something shifted in the old man’s face then and his eyes seemed to look at her for the first time. He was taking it in now. How the baby who was once a mere obstacle was now a living walking person, undoubtedly molded and changed by his schemes of manifest destiny. His grey eyes slicked over for a moment but he did not lose his composure. When he next spoke his voice was different. It was different from seconds ago when he spoke to “your majesty” and it was different from the dinner table and the sitting room where he spoke as if to an audience. “I beg your majesty forgive me,” his voice was soft and he spoke to Ozma, the girl, not the princess, “For what I did to you and your father.”

“What did you do to my father?” she asked gravely.

“I gave him to the witch Mombi, along with you and your mother.”

She ignored the sensation of her heart being sliced in half and the sudden blotted form of a mother rising into her story. She would feel it later, try to put a face to the mother later.

“What happened to them?”

He gave an expression that told her how much he never considered what happened to the royal family once they were out of his way. Glinda had once, under bated breath during a history lesson, called the Wizard “A foolish man”. Ozma knew a great many people who called themselves fools but were in fact the smartest and kindest people she ever met and Ozma knew a great many people whom only she thought was a “fool” but thought themselves the smartest person in the room. Now Ozma could now see what sort of “fool” the Wizard was. 

It was painful to have this revelation while simultaneously watching him reflect on the sort of fool he had been. He straightened himself up, back to performing for the child queen, “Well uh, I’m sure whatever she did with them-“

It was all Ozma could do not run away from where she stood. She stared into him, hoping her unflinching gaze was as terrifying as any witch or sorceress. Perhaps it worked because he deflated then and she could see a tear leak out and down the side of his crooked nose.

“I do not know what happened to them after that. I only needed the royal family out of the way and I was considering just banishing them to the countryside somewhere but _she_ threatened to expose me if I didn’t give them to her and if I am honest, nothing scares me more than witches.”

“You and I both.” Ozma did not hold back the bitterness that flooded her voice.

The Wizard stared at the ground, his eyes still reflecting all matter of foolish, heartless, cowardly actions he may have taken in his life. The silence was overwhelming, Ozma didn’t even notice that she was holding her breath until he looked up and spoke.

“Perhaps I just came all this way to apologize. I can leave in the morning. You can whisk me away with magic shoes or carpet or whatever have you- Dorothy’s told me the different ways. I’ll go back to the United States and promise to never look for the Fairylands again.”

Ozma crossed her arms and considered the crumpled old man in the velvet suit before her. She considered if her anger was with his foolishness after all. His revelation and apology that showed that he was not foolish like that anymore. She was a baby and then she was a princess and he was an old man and what happened in the past could not be changed.

“Or you can cut off my head,” he continued, “Have me hanged, drawn and quartered, find out what happened to your parents and do that to me. It is a fate not undeserved.”

He may have kept her family alive. Her anger then, she realized not for the first time, was with Mombi. The old witch took advantage of a man trying to take advantage of the captive audience of a country. Ozma decided to keep a large quantity of her anger on Mombi and allocated a fair amount of it onto to the abstract concept of “claiming yourself king of a land where other people already live by a complex system of governance because you’ve never heard of it and you landed there on accident.” Ozma was never very good at paying attention to her formal history lessons but she understood history. It was her job to look into the past and see what did and didn’t work so as to make the best decisions for the present. She understood that if the Wizard acted so foolishly and unthinkingly, it was because what he did was what was done back in Omaha, or the United States, or wherever it was he was from. She could see his willingness to accept humility but that did not mean he had still learned the right thing to do.

“You will stay here,” she said, coming to her decision. “You will watch how this country was meant to be governed. You will understand how its traditions, its culture, its government are meant to be without threats of magic or interloping showmen calling themselves ‘wizards’. You will not intervene with matters of politics or affairs of state.”

The startled expression on his face as he looked at her told Ozma that this was not an option he expected. She continued, “If after sometime you find yourself changed from this experience, you will be free to do as you like. Return to where you are from, travel the globe, stay here. If after sometime you find yourself unchanged, unperturbed by the idea of an invading force claiming a group of people ‘conquered’, then we will perhaps consider…” she didn’t even know what to call it, “…a different course of action for you.”

The Wizard, no, Mr. Diggs, bowed his head again. “Thank you, your majesty. I agree to your terms. It is the very least I can do. I accept my role as prisoner.”

“I never said you were a prisoner. You are an observer,” said Ozma sharply, “You have done enough. The most beneficial thing you can do would be doing ‘the least’.”

\- - -

Forgiveness, is not as hasty as what is written by royal historians. “Forgiveness", is the word applied when the royal historians are from the same culture of “discover and conquer”, where wrong doers are not allowed the opportunity to heal or change but are locked away from public eyes and ears. “Forgiveness", is the word applied when the royal historian cannot think of an alternate form of repercussions other than “punishment”.

When Ozma went to bed after confronting Mr. Diggs, she tried to imagine the different ways she could go about doing what it was she had so suddenly found herself setting out to do. At first Ozma was tempted to toss a load of history books at him and have the old man read up on the history of Oz. She wanted to quiz him on the ways of life before his sudden appearance in the country’s timeline and have him write long imaginably boring essays on why he was wrong. She fell asleep brooding on this idea but when she woke up in the morning, she realized that would mean putting herself in the role of school teacher, the way Glinda had been to her, and that was not something she was willing to put a grown man through. What she imagined he needed to learn, how he needed to change, needed to be done through more practical means.

Everyday of the weeks and months that followed, Ozma requested Mr. Diggs’ presence at court. As promised, he did not involve himself into matters that did not have to do with him. He did not involve himself in matters of state and did not say a word, but he watched. He listened. He took note of how the different matters were handled.

Ozma in turn felt his presence at court and felt she needed to teach by example. _This_ is how you rule a country, _this_ is how you resolve conflicts. _This_ is how you allocate resources fairly so that everyone receives what they need, _this_ is how you effectively stop witches. She worked harder at her duties to prove to him and herself and her people that she was more than capable of helping her country flourish. As the Princess built up her kingdom from the disrepair it was in when she came into power, she felt the people’s trust in her grow and, slowly, frighteningly, she felt her own trust in herself grow. 

Through out it all, Ozma could see Mr. Diggs thinking. She could see him talking to others outside of court, not to speak to an audience, but to hear what they had to say. He worked to keep his public image spotless and his reputation favorable by those who had every right to wish ill of him. Ozma tried to imagine how this scenario would have played out had he been unwilling to change but decided to remain simply grateful that he was.

\- - -

Mr. Diggs would put on performances of his stage magic now and again to delight the court or visitors of the Emerald City. He would have his tiny piglets jump through hoops or produce bouquets of flowers or birds from his sleeves or hat. It was a popular source of entertainment in the palace, especially since to real fairies, there was something amusing about a mortal man who called his shows “magic”. Ozma was at least glad that he was being truthful, and not claiming it to be anything other than the stage magician he was.

\- - - 

The Wogglebug Athletic College was mounting its first student production in its newly constructed theater. To advertise “The Romance of Pastoria”, a light historical comedy, the director of the theatre department had requested an audience with the Princess, who was a significant patron of the college. The cast and crew stood before the royal throne and put on a preview performance before all of the court.

The play itself seemed to be a flowery musical with little relation to actual history beyond the names of the characters and showcased some popular songs that were favored by the college’s students. There was a set up for a romantic mishap between the main characters that promised to resolve itself neatly in a weeks time on opening night.

The preview was well received and when court was dismissed for the day, Ozma had gone over to speak to the theatre troop personally. She had wanted to speak to the director as well, but found the director’s attention taken by a passionate conversation with Mr. Diggs on the subject of theatrical special effects. Mr. Diggs of course had much experience in that area. It was soon decided that he was to go to the college the next day and see what he could do to help with the final performance.

“They won’t have time to add anything too grand to the show as it is too late into rehearsals,” Mr. Diggs explained as he and the Princess walked together to dinner, “Still the director would like to go over the script with me to see if there’s anything that can be added for spectacle.”

“That sounds like a fine plan. I admire your dedication to the arts,” said Ozma easily. “I won’t expect you at court until the performance then.” Then an idea flashed through her mind and she decided to see what would happen if she pursued it. She said, “It’s a shame this performance won't have anything on a larger scale as you said. Your solo shows are marvelous indeed, but I can’t imagine what you could make with a larger crew of artists to aide you.”

He blushed and said, “Oh I don’t know if I’m quite ready to go back into the big flashy stage shows again but if you are interested in my work,” his eyes shifted down the hall and his voice lowered as he gave her the answer she wanted to hear, “Some of the old props I used when I was the ‘Wizard’ are still in this very palace. If you would like to see them-“

“Yes!”

He had a mischievous glint in his eye, “After dessert, when the table is cleared and everyone retires for the night, meet me at the main doors to the throne room.”

Ozma agreed and dutifully sat through dinner and dessert and when the last plate was cleared tried not to look too eager to “retire for the evening”.

She met Mr. Diggs in the anteroom that lead to the throne room as promised. The double doors were shut tight and Mr. Diggs was speaking to the head of the palace staff. 

“Princess!” he said with a theatrical bow, “Jellia has come to help. She knows this old palace better than anyone as she was my assistant during my stint as the ‘Wizard’. She will be joining us tonight.”

Jellia gave a smile and a polite curtsey that Ozma returned.

Mr. Diggs took off his dinner coat and threw it on one of the green and gold sofas that were provided for visitors waiting for a royal audience and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

He pointed a quick finger at Jellia who immediately walked to the other side of the anteroom and moved an end table away from its place against the wall. She counted the wall panels from the door and found the one she was looking for. Just as she was about to place her hand on the panel a voice from above suddenly cried out, “Yes! I knew it!”

Ozma spun around startled, but she smiled when she remembered the mounted Gump head hung on the anteroom wall.

“I have been staring at that panel for years and I knew it was hiding something!”

Jellia smirked at the Gump and pressed the panel. It pushed inward and then opened out as a long thin door, revealing a small compartment holding a system of pulleys and rope.

Mr. Diggs looked inside the panel and nodded at Jellia, who took out a feather duster and cleared away layers of dust. Then Mr. Diggs fiddled with the pulleys and gave a thumbs up motion.

He then went over to the other side of the doors and found a similar panel, pressed his hand to it and it revealed another cabinet of ropes and pulleys.

“Yes! I knew that would be there too!” exclaimed the Gump.

Mr. Diggs blew off the dust that came out in an eye stinging flurry, and then checked the pulleys in the same way as in the first cabinet. Then he swung open the large double doors to the throne room and gestured for Ozma to follow.

Just as she was about to, the Gump said, “Oh please just let me see what's going to happen, I’ve been wondering for so long!” Ozma stood on the sofa and carefully took the stuffed animal head down from the wall. Minding the antlers, she carried him with the back of his plaque against her stomach so that he could have a good view of the room around him.

The throne room seemed so wide and empty without any people and only the gas lamps along the wall dimmed low for light.

Mr. Diggs had stopped in front of the throne and got on his knees to pull away the green runner carpet that led to the royal seat.

Beneath it was nothing more than the gold tiles that lined the floor but Ozma followed Mr. Diggs’ gaze to a thin line that ran between the tiles and watched as he pressed down on a select few in a row that ran before the throne. The tiles opened up as the wall panels had, but instead of revealing another set of pulleys the empty space just opened to a long rectangular strip of darkness. Ozma stared into the void of what, presumably, was whatever it was that lay beneath the throne room.

“Alright, Jellia, lift him up! Stand back, your majesty.”

Ozma took a step back, and there was the sound of gears, like the ones that wound in Tik-Tok, but made of much bigger mechanisms. 

Up from the floor rose an enormous head of a green skinned man. The shape was dusty and covered with cobwebs and the paint was chipping in parts but Ozma could see what this had once been. 

“There used to be fire that came up around it,” explained Mr. Diggs, “But the tanks that held the gas are empty now. I made sure of that before I left so the palace wouldn’t go up in flames.”

The enormous red eyes of Oz, the Great and Terrible, glared down at Ozma and the Princess glared back at it with equal ferocity. A startled spider skittered across the nose, making clean tracks in the dust and the mask seemed to lose all its power.

“And this has been beneath the throne this entire time?”

“There is much, much, more to this throne room than meets the eye, your Majesty.”

“But I’ve looked! There is no basement to this room. Directly over head is your tower and I have looked there too!”

“These tricks were built into the walls when I had this part of the palace constructed. This head is built into the floor and only comes up when someone pulls the ropes in the other room. Would you like to see more?”

“Yes!” said the Gump and Ozma nearly dropped him in her surprise. It could be sadly easy to forget the Gump even when she was holding him in her arms.

Mr. Diggs climbed the steps to the throne and removed the tasseled green velvet cushion that rested on the seat. He felt into the groove between the back of the chair and the seat and seemed to find what he was looking for when he went “Aha!” and an audible ‘click’ was heard. Mr. Diggs pulled on the right arm of the throne and then the left and the chair split apart in two halves. The seam that down the middle of the seat grew wider and wider until what was a single ornate chair appeared to be something more of a sofa balancing on top of a box with a wide hole in the middle. Mr. Diggs reached into this dark hole and began to pull out what looked like long wooden poles wrapped in raw wool. He took out each part carefully and connected the parts to one another. As the thing he was building began to take form, Ozma could not help but be reminded of when she constructed Jack. Except that this was nothing like Jack at all. Mr. Diggs pulled more and more limbs out of the throne and more yards of wool that he draped over parts of the poles like a tent tarp and other parts as if he were dressing a wax mannequin in a store window. When everything was all in its place, Ozma shuddered at what she had unknowingly been sitting on top of for years. Now on her throne sat a terrible monster that seemed to be a cross between a spider and a rhinoceros. The old sheep’s wool was matted with dirt and dust and was falling off to the floor in places. Ozma could see that in the right lighting the five eyes of this beast would flash and glower in a rather threatening manner. It was awful to look at and Mr. Diggs' face held an expression of concern mixed with regret as he looked over it.

“Yikes,” said the Gump.

“We had the ceiling rigged with wires so that each limb could be moved individually from the tower. Usually it was I or on occasion, Jellia.” After a long pause he said, “I had been particularly proud of this one but it is not pleasant to look at is it?”

“Perhaps the college could use it? For a monster in their plays?” said Ozma helpfully.

“Oh! Yes, that is a capital idea! Now!” he turned his attention to the ceiling and pointed up.

“There used to be a piece that could come down and if the audience sat on the right mark, which is where I arranged the audience to sit, it would look as if a large ball of fire sat on the throne and gave commands. That’s long gone now I think. It was just an unassuming circle of cardboard covered in strips of tissue paper.” He crouched down to overturn two tiles on the floor on the right and left of the throne's arms. Underneath were what looked like two metal grates. “The vents!” Mr. Diggs shouted towards the anteroom. After a few moments Ozma and Mr. Diggs were faced with a burst of dust, pushed up by a stream of air from the metal grates. Ozma coughed and Mr. Diggs offered her his handkerchief to wipe away the dirt before explaining, “Air would be pumped out through a tube that ran from the waiting room to here and the air would wave the paper about and we would put colored glass over the lights to make it look like the ‘flames’ were changing color.”

“I cannot believe all that was hidden here,” said Ozma, dusting off the Gump and returning the handkerchief.

“There is one last trick we used to pull that would work splendidly on the locals when I needed something from them! Oh I hope it is still here!” Mr. Diggs turned back to the seat of the throne. With a great amount of effort he pushed aside the monster. It landed in a grotesque heap of arms and legs on the floor. Mr. Diggs was reaching back into the hidden compartment of the throne. He bent so far into it that it looked as if his tiny form was going to be swallowed by the chair before he at last surfaced, tugging out some items.

There was a dress, an emerald tiara, a wig, and an overlarge pair of wings like those of a dragonfly, made from gauze and beetle wing sequins. 

“Someone would dress in this disguise and sit on the throne and either recite some memorized lines or I would tell them how I wanted the conversation to go before hand.”

Ozma studied the dress. It was old and certainly in a style from the Emerald City, all that green silk gauze and golden trimmings. The tiara didn’t seem a cheap costume trinket either. The emeralds were set as if by a master jeweler. There was also something unseen surrounding these two items that did not surround the wig and the wings. Ozma was not one to trust her own magical instincts but it did feel something like real magic.

“Who wore these?”

“Oh sometimes Jellia, sometimes one of the other maids who was in on my secret, but I was not averse to putting it on myself as it is something often done in the theatre-“

“I mean, who did this dress belong to before you had it?”

“Hm? Oh I don’t recall. I believe Jellia found it in the palace somewhere.”

“I did,” said Jellia, walking into the throne room, “The Wizard knew how to make disguises the people would fear, but he did not know how to make disguises the people would trust.”

“So I left that in the hands of a native of the fairylands,” said Mr. Diggs.

“This was your mother’s dress. One of them, anyway. I had not realized it was still here.” 

Ozma immediately handed the Gump with his plaque over to Mr. Diggs and picked up the dress.

It was old and smelled of mildew and dust but when Ozma held it out to look at it, the formless blot of a mother figure, who had started to make appearances in the Princess’ self-narrative about her own early years, started to gain a shape. Ozma could imagine the sort the person who would wear a dress like this, how they would fill it out and stand and walk in it with a stately grace. This was a queen’s dress and why shouldn’t it be? Her mother was a queen. There was the crown to prove it. The dress seemed to buzz with a magic of its own as she pulled it into her arms.

“Have them, they are yours,” said Jellia.

\- - -

In the end the throne room was put back to order, secret panels closed, the Gump back on his post in the waiting room with a promise to have more visits from Ozma. (“Don’t worry, I get plenty of company, and that’s all I really need,” he had said, “But I do appreciate the thought.”)

The Princess and Mr. Diggs agreed that the papier-mâché head might be of interest to the Royal History Museum of the Emerald City, so after they let their friends look at it up close for about a day, it was sent away for the public to see. The hideous rhinoceros spider was also given to the museum but had to eventually be kept in the archives as it scared too many children in its public display. 

The wig and the wings were gifted to the theater department of the Wogglebug Athletic College on the night of its first performance of “The Romance of Pastoria”, which the Princess and the former Wizard attended. Her mother’s dress and tiara, Ozma kept, and stored it in the back of her wardrobe.

\- - -

The performance of the following season, “Quelala and the Monkeys”, had, as hoped, some grander effects courtesy of Oscar Diggs. There were large scale moving set pieces, projections thrown onto screens, and a number of beautiful women dressed as flowers in a musical interlude. Ozma attended the opening night and was as impressed as the rest of the audience. The highlight of the show, however, was when gymnast student actors dressed as flying monkeys were able to soar out over the audience on a complex set of wires and riggings. More impressive was that no one was injured in the show’s entire run. The crowd oohed and ahed and it was the talk of the town for weeks after the show closed.

\- - -

“They are saying you brought ‘magic’ back to Oz,” said Ozma, looking over the reviews in the arts section of an Emerald City newspaper. She raised in eyebrow at Mr. Diggs, “I don’t even know where to start with that.”

Mr. Diggs scoffed, “That’s too much of a claim. If you suspend your disbelief enough, anything can look like magic.”

“I agree,” said Ozma, setting aside the newspaper, “Anything can look to be magic, but not everything _is_ magic. Mr. Diggs, I have been thinking about our terms of your stay.” 

At the switch of topic, Mr. Diggs startled and Ozma thought the face he gave was comparable to that of a scared rabbit. She realized that he was afraid that he would be asked to leave the country.

“Do not worry, I have been simply thinking about what you have learned thus far. I think we can both agree that you have a keener knowledge of how the government in Oz manages itself. You have been an active participant in the arts and culture especially in the community at the Athletics College. These are all excellent things. I realized though, when I watched the performance the other night, that there is an element to the culture of Oz that does not exist where you come from. Knowing a little more about it may help you understand the perspective of the people a little better.”

“To be truthful, your majesty, your country has many many things that my country lacked. Which aspect are you speaking of?”

Ozma felt the same flash of mischief pass through her eyes that must have passed through Mr. Diggs’ eyes when he had agreed to show her the relics hidden in the throne room. She leaned forward and grinned conspiratorially, “Magic!”

\- - -

Mr. Diggs was reluctant at first, to take a trip to the Quadling Country, even when Ozma insisted that it was perfectly safe.

“Not for me!” he said, trying to excuse himself from the adventure.

“But the Lion has worked hard to bring peace to the Animal Kingdom and the trees mostly keep to themselves these days!”

“I assure you Princess, I do not fear those obstacles.”

“The road to Glinda’s Palace has been redirected to not go into the Hammerhead’s territory. You have no reason to fear them-”

“No, I do not fear the Hammerheads either.”

Ozma thought about the things that Mr. Diggs had admitted to being afraid of and there was only one thing left that she could think of. Then she tipped her head back and laughed.

“Whatever are you laughing at?!”

“Glinda won’t harm you!” 

He did a double take at being found out, “And how can you be so sure? She was furious with me the last time I encountered her!”

“The last time you were here you were a danger to the country and to yourself, no offense.”

“None taken, but how can you be so sure she still won’t harm me?!”

“You are not a danger to anyone anymore. I won’t allow you to be, you won’t allow yourself to be, and Glinda will especially not allow it.”

“And why is that?”

“If Glinda thought once that you were a serious threat to this land when you returned, then she would have dealt with you herself long ago.”

Mr. Digg’s face went pale. He opened his mouth to say something then closed it. He was quiet for a moment and then closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Very well then,” he said at last, “To Glinda’s we go.”

\- - -

Ozma could not blame Mr. Diggs for his nervousness about seeing Glinda. Glinda made Ozma nervous as well, but Ozma had gathered from other youths her age that that was how the person who was essentially your school teacher was supposed to make you feel. But then she supposed that Mr. Diggs was not a boy visiting his old school teacher, but was rather a man returning to a country he had essentially destroyed and meeting with his former political adversary. Ozma shuddered at the thought of having Glinda for a political adversary.

The Princess and Mr. Diggs were met at the entrance to Glinda’s palace by the usual entourage of girl soldiers dressed in crimson and burgundy.

“Are you sure she was all right with this?” gulped Mr. Diggs.

“Yes I wrote her in advance. I have her reply.”

She held out the reply that had arrived by messenger stork within moments of her own letter requesting an audience being sent. It was written in elegant but sharp cursive on a small piece of stationary that looked and smelled as if it had been made from pressed rose petals. It read:

> _Saturday. Three o’ clock. Do not be late.  
>  \- G _

“You see? She’s happy to have us!” said Ozma reassuringly, but Mr. Diggs did not seem reassured.

They were lead not to the library, nor to the reception chamber, but to the chamber where Ozma had taken her magic lessons in the past.

The smell of the herbs hanging from the ceiling made the Princess remember the anxiety of old magic lessons. There was that overhanging unidentifiable thickness to the air that made her stomach churn, but that was just part of returning to what was more or less your old schoolroom, wasn’t it? 

Glinda was standing tall in the center of the room, draped in her white robes. Beside her was a pedestal of marble at her waist height, on top of which was an empty gold bowl.

“Your majesty,” Glinda bowed low to Ozma. This was a gesture the sorceress almost never made except in the most symbolic and ceremonial of gatherings hosted at the Emerald City. Ozma may have been the figure on the throne, but Glinda was older than the throne itself.

Ozma gave a confused curtsey in return but she understood what was happening when Glinda stood to her full height and greeted Mr. Diggs with one of her most marble-faced expressions and a clipped tone. “Oscar Diggs.”

Oscar Diggs gave a low, respectful bow. He didn’t even place his hat back on his head when he rose from it.

“You have been doing a fine job teaching your student, Princess,” said Glinda, turning her full attention back to Ozma. Mr. Diggs’ face flushed. He opened his mouth to say something but quickly closed it and continued to spin the brim of his top hat in his hand.

“I know you do not think of him as a student,” Glinda continued, “He is here to observe how this country rules itself without him, however, we always learn much from observing the world around us. Does that not make us all Nature’s students?”

Mr. Diggs nodded both enthusiastically and nervously. Ozma quirked her head at Glinda. “Yes,” she said evenly, “That is why I thought you would be the best to help us with some insight on magic. Real fairy magic. Even with your tutoring I still have much to learn and don’t feel fully equipped to help Mr. Diggs in understanding it as I feel he should.”

“Indeed,” said Glinda, “I hope that today’s demonstration should be helpful for you as well, Princess. Shall we proceed?” 

“Yes, thank you, Glinda,” said Ozma, taking a step back to Mr. Diggs’ side.

Glinda reached a hand out behind her and gave the lightest tap of her thumb to her index and middle finger. It was a motion so slight that no one would have noticed it if they were not accustomed to seeing Glinda’s way of magic. A roaring fire leapt up in the marble hearth behind her.

“You will see no parlor tricks here,” said Glinda, “There are no hidden gas tanks or passages for hot air. I know you would like to examine the fireplace to see how I did it. Go ahead, Oscar, take a look.”

“Oh, no, I believe you,” said Oscar Diggs nervously.

“Seeing is often believing,” said Glinda cooly. “Please look. Do not worry, I will not push you in.”

“How comforting,” said Oscar Diggs with a swallow, but nonetheless he stepped forward to inspect the fireplace. He looked outside at the mantle. It was made of white marble and made from simply smooth flat stones with no ornate carvings as was common in the Emerald City. He looked at the sides, where the edges of the stones met the white plaster of the wall and he looked at the red tiles on the floor at its entrance and he even pressed along each tile. The fireplace remained firmly on the wall.

When he stepped closer to the fire Glinda gave another slight, indiscernible twitch of her thumb and the flames settled to a low ember. Oscar continued to explore inside of the fireplace. He tapped at all the stones with his hands and as he moved his foot forward to tap aside the wood and ashes to inspect the floor, the fire went out completely. 

When he was done, Oscar turned around, his face now baffled as well as nervous. “As you said, no parlor tricks here. Though,” he leaned back into the fireplace and smelled the air, “It does not smell like smoke. Roses?”

Glinda laughed, “Very observant.” When Oscar Diggs was standing beside Ozma again, Glinda made another unnoticeable motion with her fingers and the fire roared back to life.

“Did you know, Oscar Diggs, that fire is an example of magic that even mortals can see?” 

“Is it now?” 

“It can change wood to smoke and ash. The transformation you witness in the form of heat and flame- transformation, is the basis of magic, but it is not necessarily magic itself. I believe I told you years ago, magic is a fiber of the world that with time and care we may use to transform and shift things.”

Ozma wondered when Oscar Diggs had had opportunity to speak to Glinda about magic in the past, for Glinda never once spoke of him except in history lessons.

Glinda swept her left hand to the spot beside her hip, as if to swiftly scoop something from the air, and twisted the fingers of her raised right hand. Ozma knew this movement. She knew how to perform it with a wand. She watched for Glinda’s exhale of breath, a small quick burst of air from her nostrils that was minute compared to how Ozma performed it. Oscar would not know what to look for in this conjuring for as soon as the exhale left Glinda, water poured from air below Glinda’s right hand into the golden bowl on top of the marble pedestal.

“Water is a magic mortals can see,” said Glinda, “It washes away events from the past and pushes forward events to come. Ships of invaders kept afloat by ocean waves and gold pushed to the surface of the riverbed all come and go in time with the aid of the water. Princess, what other two forms of magic can mortals see?”

Ozma was glad Glinda had asked her a question that was easy enough to answer. Ozma tugged on one of the poppies in her hair, “The earth, which transforms dirt and dying things into flower and fruit, trees into coal, dust into diamonds.”

Glinda looked at Ozma expectantly. “The fourth is a trick question for it is the air. Nobody can see that, but we can feel it, and know how it pushes the waves forward, know how it shakes the leaves in the trees, and how it feeds the flames of a fire.”

Glinda smiled proudly and nodded before turning her attention to Oscar Diggs, “The world is made of magic. The difference between a mortal and a fairy is the ability to manipulate this magic to the advantage or disadvantage of themselves or others. It would be a lie to say that no mortal has ever learned some degree of magic, but not without much work and study. Fairies, however, are beings made of magic, created to protect the magic of this world. They know it from the day they are born.”

Ozma’s attention drifted as Glinda went on about the classification of fairies. Ryls and Knooks and Nomes and all that. Ozma knew all this. Clearly Oscar Diggs (Ozma liked the frankness with which Glinda used his name) was not at all familiar. Ozma wondered how on Earth this man won the respect of any of the Ozites. Ozma wondered if she had always been capable of magic. Ozma’s mind held the image of a baby in some gold gilt cradle reaching out a tiny chubby hand to make a bouquet of flowers burst from the air. In this vision the cradle was surrounded by a stately mother in a green silk gauze dress with fake insect wings and an oil portrait father who cooed in delight at the talents of their child so young and already conjuring. The truth was Ozma did not know how be properly aware of magic until she started lessons with Glinda, who, when they started, was under the impression that Ozma already knew the basics. 

_Glinda had been surprised then, something Ozma was learning to be a very rare event._

_“Did Mombi not teach you a thing in your time with her?”_

_Ozma had shrugged, “She taught me to read and write.” Mombi had taught the effects of diluted potions for spelling errors._

_Glinda rubbed the bridge of her nose, “Of magic I mean.”_

_“Was she supposed to?”_

Something of the smell of the room, not the roses, another scent in the background of it all, made Ozma’s head ache. She was aware of how long she had been standing before Glinda, who was still going on about magic to Oscar Diggs. Ozma had to remind herself that she was the one who had requested this.

“As with any craft,” Glinda continued, “there are those who are stronger at it than others, but skill is only a product of experience. Anyone is capable of magic with enough practice.”

“Though not everyone should,” interjected Ozma, deciding it was time to bring in her own disclosure to this lesson, “Magic can be used for evil as well as good, and unpracticed magic users can make mistakes with serious consequences. It is why I have worked so hard to put limitations on who can use magic and to what purpose. A well practiced devotee to the magic arts, such as Glinda, who has done so much good for our country is of course permitted. A novice who may accidentally hurt themselves or others needs a good approved of teacher and time to practice before being legally permitted.”

“Does your majesty not practice magic?” asked Oscar Diggs.

“I am versed in magic to the extent that is expected of me as ruler of a fairyland.” What she does not say is _“Who would want someone like me to perform magic? And anyway magic is dangerous.”_ Then the image in her mind, _a toddler, a grubby child in purple short pants being scolded for picking too many flowers from the garden. The raising of an oak staff._ “But it would be hypocritical of me to limit the magic of others and still practice it myself. I use it only when it is necessary.”

Ozma ignored Glinda’s disapproving look as she thanked her for the demonstration.

\- - -

Then there would be days when the Princess would wake up and would know that she was not a princess. 

She would dress in the white silk gowns and thread her hair with gold and sit in the same puzzle box throne as she had sat in everyday since she was discovered to be a princess.

She would say the words she knew to say to hold her court and she would sit at formal dinners and have important meetings and watch the clocks carefully until the day was over and at last excuse herself from court and duty and retreat back to her rooms. 

She would unthread the gold from her hair and remove the red flowers and in the mirror she would see the face of farm child biding her time and waiting to be taken back to the witch’s house to milk the cows and feed the pigs. She’d go back any day now. She knew it.

It was not something she looked forward to, life at the palace was extraordinarily better than any life at old Mombi’s homestead, but surely one day Glinda would realize she had been mistaken, had transformed the wrong child and Ozma would be asked to return to the world as she had known it before. Mombi had little belief in Tip’s abilities to be anything more than a farmhand and a nuisance to her existence and Glinda and the people of Oz would learn the truth in time.

This disbelief in herself would come to startling odds when a word of praise from a friend or loved one (Bill grateful for her help in building a new addition to the Royal Chicken Coop one afternoon when court was out of session) or humbled subject (Munchkin farmers pleased at the swift orders and negotiations to repair a dam that threatened to ruin their land when the rains came) came her way. She did right by them the best she could, but surely they must be mistaken. She kept waiting for the witch.

\- - -

One day Ozma came aware that plans were being made for an extravagant party for her birthday and the five year anniversary of her rule. Ozma did not mind royal balls for she, like most other fairies, loved dancing. There was to be a banquet and a day of games and sport and this idea sounded most pleasing. The palace staff had some of the finest party planning committees in all the land after all.

Then there was the matter of invitations. She would invite all her friends of course. Dear Jack and the Scarecrow and Nick and Bill and everyone who filled in the gaps of what the princess felt she needed in a family. Indeed, the halls were filled with as many sculptures and tapestries of her friends as there were oil paintings and busts of old queens and kings. They were all people who accepted her as she was, not just as a princess, who would likely visit her when she went back to the Gilikin Country some abstract day.

Dorothy Gale of Kansas, whom Ozma considered the closest she had to a bosom friend (for she did not give a fig if Ozma was a Princess or not and liked her all the same) she would surely enjoy the grand party that was planned. Ozma decided to think of an exciting way to bring Dorothy back to Oz. Yes, this group would make a splendid birthday party indeed.

Then the planning committee started informing her that of course politicians of higher ranks should be invited as well, as a form of goodwilll between the capital city and the rest of the country. The Mayor of Munchkinland, the Good Witches of the North and South, and the Tin Woodsman not just as a friend, but as the Emperor of the Winkies should be invited. Mayors and leaders and figureheads of lesser towns and kingdoms wanted to be invited as well and it would not be in good form to not invite them. Some of the more prominent magic workers of the country were to attend as it was always an excellent rule of thumb, regardless of how you felt about their magic, to not fail to invite powerful fairies to your party. 

Then of course, there was the matter of royalty and delegates from abroad. 

At this point Ozma’s head was spinning. When the committee was done compiling the list of absolutely everybody that needed to be invited, the Princess called a brief recess from court and did what as a child she had done best. She went outside, located a tree with sturdy branches and heavy foliage, and climbed to the tallest and best hidden boughs.

She hid there for an hour at first. That was how long it usually took to reconvene everyone after a court recess. Then she stayed for another hour, deciding that the longer she stayed up there, the quicker everyone would find out she was not worth all this fuss over.

At the end of the third hour she could sense the wave of disturbance coming from the palace. She could hear the feet swiftly entering and exiting the palace moving to a pace of growing tension. 

Up in the trees she watched the sun travel through the sunlight of the leaves. Against the city and the palace walls the space in the canopy was greener than she was accustomed to in tree tops. She realized she hadn’t climbed a tree in many years.

When she was still enough she could watch the insects who made their homes in the tree make their way across the bark. Little wood mites and the occasional weevil. Small things that did not make their presence loudly known but lived in a universe entirely their own. On the branch next to her a fuzzy caterpillar felt its way into a clump of leaves. 

She must have dozed off up there for a tapping on the tree trunk woke her up. She looked down and through the leaves saw a black top hat and white spats on the grass.

She did not give herself away quickly. She watched the unmistakable form of Oscar Diggs knock on the trunk three more times before he circled the tree and sat down at the roots.

“I’m glad to see you old peach tree,” he said in a voice loud enough for her to hear but it did not loud enough to attract others. “I planted you when I first set up this place, as it were, and I’m glad to see you’re still strong. Though I did not expect you to grow so tall. In my country we let fruit trees grow small and stunted so we can reap the fruit. It seems they have different ideas about fruit trees in this country.”

Ozma frowned when she saw the leaves on the trees begin the slightest twitching movement towards the sound of his voice.

“Yes, I got your pit from a peach I stole from a fruit stand in Georgia when I was on tour with the circus. It was the best peach I ever ate so I determined to plant you if I ever settled in one spot.”

The leaves twitched closer. Ozma scooted farther down the branch.

“I never planned to settle anywhere of course, so carrying your pit was something of a joke for a while.”

Ozma looked at Oscar Diggs through the leaves and said at last aloud, “Then what made you choose to settle here?”

“Oh! Princess! I didn't see you up there!” said Oscar Diggs in a feign startled voice. “I was just talking to this peach tree. I’ve found that your fairyland trees are very good listeners.”

“Carry on then, pretend I’m not here.”

“Very well,” he said with a wink and leaned back against the tree. “I was born in the city of Omaha in the Nebraska Territories at the time when Omaha was set to be the capital city of our state. My father was a politician brought in from Washington, that’s the capital city of our country, and expected me to have a life of incredible importance. The plan was laid out for me from the moment I was born. I’d go to school in New England, far from the place I had grown up, and I would become an educated young man who would attend a prestigious university to become a politician, perhaps a senator or congressman and do many things of great importance for our growing nation. 

I of course wanted none of this. I wanted to be something great but I did not want my fate handed to me. I wanted to do it my way! I wanted to be a theatrical performer! I had seen the variety shows at the Academy of Music, heard the wild singing outside the dining hall at Herndon House, and knew that was what I wanted. So I did what any young boy with dreams of the stage on the brink of being sent to boarding school would do, I ran away and joined the circus. That was my choice. It was the best choice I ever made. I traveled the country, met many interesting people, and got to live out my fantasies of being in the spotlight. None of it was given to me because of who my father was. I had to work for my time in the spotlight, you know! First as a jack-of-all-trades stagehand, then as an understudy for pantomime sketches, and then in a ventriloquist act. At last I was headlining in my own balloon shows! I was so proud of what I had done on my own.

Then there was that terrible storm and I landed in a place where none of my efforts seemed to matter anymore. This marvelous land where all is plenty and real magic exists. But I carried on as I always had, doing what I knew how to do best- lying through my teeth and gathering more people to watch me do it! Only now the landscape of local politics was my stage. My father would have been proud of me, I was doing exactly what he had wanted of me in the end. I never questioned why I did it or kept doing it. It was simply all I knew how to do.

Well, when I was revealed for the fraud I was, I made the choice to pack my things and go on home, and I am glad that I did. I cannot tell you how disheartening it is to go back to Nebraska after you have been a king.”

Oscar stared off somewhere that Ozma could not see. Perhaps it was Omaha.

“I found all my family, even my father, were dead and buried and all the friends from my childhood were grown up and moved away if they weren’t buried along with them. Omaha wasn’t the little town I had remembered. It was not a capital city anymore but it was still bigger than when I had left it. The buildings had gotten taller and the places had new names. Also there is the concrete fact that Omaha, _Nebraska_ , is simply not Oz. In America people starve and go without and there is very little anyone can do about it except try to live one day at a time. 

I joined the circus again and took up balloon shows once more. This was a good choice to make, because an old man in America with nothing but a patched up hot air balloon would be on the streets in an instant and the circus will take in anyone with the talent.

This time my tour with the circus was different. Back when I was hiding in the palace I had missed talking to people, especially to my fellow countrymen. I talked to everyone I met. There were people like me who came from money and wealth and spurned it all to make their own destiny. There were people who came from nothing and were using life in the circus as a chance to make something for themselves. That second group of people, they were the people who deserved to be kings and queens more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Do you think they would have been good at it?” Ozma found herself perched on the lowest branch of the peach tree, her legs dangling down to brush the top of Oscar’s hat. She didn’t remember climbing down, but, there she was.

Oscar startled from his revery. He thought a moment and then a mirthful glimmer returned to his eyes. “I think so. Running a circus is a lot like running a country in many respects.”

“How so?”

“You must meet the demands of your audience for one. If you are a magician you better have some convincing tricks up your sleeve or they won’t pay to see you and if they are expecting a clown you better make them laugh. You need to make sure all your actors are fed and that their trailers are up to snuff, some managers won’t even do that.”

“Do you think I would be any good in the circus?”

Oscar leaned against the tree thoughtfully.

“Well, there’s a thought. I think you would be very good at it, Princess. You do a fine job wrangling your own circus here,” he waved a hand around to indicate the palace, the city walls the staff running doggedly through he garden paths looking for her. “If you can pull this country out of the mess I made then you could be the manager of the finest theater in the West End of London if you wanted to, never mind the measly circus.”

He was silent a moment before he asked, “Are you thinking about running away?”

Ozma pursed her lips and then looked up at the leaves, now completely bent over Oscar, which fortunately now did the job completely hiding her. “Maybe.”

“Ruling a country is no easy task, I don’t blame you. You could make that choice. It’s all a choice after all isn’t it? I’m sure Glinda wouldn’t want me telling you this but you could just stop being a princess you know. You could run away as I suspect you are seriously considering, for that’s what I would consider were I in your shoes. You could go travel the world, sail the oceans, join the circus, settle on a farm somewhere. I’m quite serious, you absolutely could. They’ll have a doozy of a time finding another Princess but they’ll find one and they will be okay, even if it doesn’t look like that right now.”

Ozma hadn’t thought of that. In her mind she belonged either at the palace or at Mombi’s farm. There was no in between. Even when she had been adventuring as Tip, she never felt deserving of the wider world. Perhaps Oscar was right and it was the wider world that was deserving of her. But then, all this trouble was about the matter of thinking anyone had to “deserve” anything, wasn’t it?

“Is there really no true magic in America?” she asked.

“Well stage magic of course. There’s the magic of nature too like Glinda said, and I’m not going to rule out people practicing it in their own quiet ways, but, no, not really like here.”

The image of Mombi’s farm shrunk in her mind when she compared it to the world outside of Oz. She could leave of course. She could go to America, where no one could be harmed by magic and she could just be an ordinary girl who could excel at not knowing magic. But America was a land of inequity and hardship. A girl like herself could not just appear from over the ocean and establish a life for herself so easily even _with_ magic to aid her.

Then there was the matter of what she would be leaving behind, who she would be leaving behind. She wouldn’t be able to do it with a light conscience. People needed her here, wanted her here. Even now she watched courtiers and palace staff scurry about looking for her. Oscar watched in equal amusement.

These people stayed in her staff not because they needed her, they didn’t need any ruler really, but because they wanted her. Oscar had proven that a monarchy was an easy thing to overthrow. Ozma’s people seemed to stay because whatever she was doing it seemed they mostly agreed with it. If anyone had the power to send her back to Mombi’s farm it was them and thus far nobody had done it.

In the long pause she thought about what she deserved and what the people she worked for deserved after all they had been through. She thought about how Oscar once had the impression that he deserved the world. Finally she asked, “Did you not feel remorse?” 

Oscar’s face turned solemn and he replied, “I would think that my staying here has proven that. If had not wanted to learn to do right by this place I would have left long ago.”

“That’s not what I mean but I will take that answer to heart. I mean, did you not have remorse for leaving your father and family and friends and home behind?” It’s not what she meant either. She wanted to say ask, _“Did you think you deserved it? Did you ever once think you could not have it all because of who you are?”_ These questions were all tangled together somehow and she did not know how to ask what she really wanted to know succinctly. 

Oscar looked startled. Then he smiled and chuckled. “I told you, running away was the best choice I had ever made. If I hadn’t have left, I would have not seen the world! And if I had not left I would not be sitting in this beautiful garden beneath this beautiful peach tree!”

_Somewhere in Omaha,_ she saw it in her mind’s eye, _a man with half of Oscar’s features and none of Oscar’s willingness to learn, sitting in a wicker backed chair. He is perhaps in the dining hall of the Herndon House Hotel or perhaps on the porch of a farm house. Perhaps the farm house is small like Dorothy’s but more likely it is much grander. Perhaps it has many floors and big glass windows that sparkle in the sun. Perhaps there is a turret and fashionable trimmings that hang from the roof. Perhaps the porch wraps around the house’s wide perimeter. Perhaps there is a garden transplanted to the prairie’s landscape. Fruit trees and a lawn of roses against the grey and gold grass. It wasn’t grey until recently. There wasn’t a house or a hotel until recently. Until recently there was a different city, bustling with travelers and trade, filled with different people who spoke different languages. The grass was green and gold and unmarred by foreign flowers then. Someone asks the man in the chair if he regrets leaving Washington for the Territories. “But if I had left,” he replies, “I would not have my lovely house or my lovely orchard.” ___

__The vision left as quick as it came but Ozma understood what it meant. Oscar was right. She had a choice, she really did, and she now knew what it was._ _

__“That’s quite enough,” she said firmly to the tree. The leaves and the branches rose back up to their usual positions in the air. Ozma slid off the last branch onto the lawn beside Oscar. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the reveal of her hiding spot to the people running about the palace grounds with increasing panic. She decided to tell them that she had simply fallen asleep in a tree during the court recess. Apologize to the party planning committee, they had a grand celebration to put together after all._ _

__“Thank you, Oscar,” she said, holding out a hand to help him stand up, “Your words have been most helpful.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my dad who patiently allowed me to read this whole thing out loud to him for final edits.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More vexing dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think you read Chapter 8, please go back and make sure you read all of it because I added and edited a whole lot since its initial posting and now it is the Chapter 8 I wanted it to be. This work has mostly been stalled for the writing of Chapter 8 which took a bazillion years (okay more like five solid months) but writing it gave me so much insight on my headcanons for everyone's characterizations as well as world building stuff.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy Chapter 9! Chapter 10 will follow in short order.

In her dream it is August and the poppy field should be bursting with red flowers and the hum of bees. It happens every year towards the time of Ozma's birthday like clockwork. The sea of crimson rises up out of the blue and green grasses on the Eastern perimeter of the city and tourists come from far and wide to see the flowers.

The flowers are not there today. Instead it is an enormous swath of dry grass. She had come to this spot with Dorothy (she doesn’t remember when or how but she had) but now it seems Jack is standing beside her.

“Where are the poppies?” Ozma asks Jack. “They’re here every year.”

“Yes,” says Jack. “But, the bees you know.”

“What?”

“Not enough bees last year to make seeds for this year.”

“Bees?”

“They got lost somewhere. Couldn’t find the flowers.”

“I suppose we ought to go and find ‘em,” Dorothy says in her ear. It’s Dorothy, at least Dorothy as she used to be, a little girl with a Midwest American drawl, no older than ten years old.

“Will you go to find the bees for me?” Ozma asks hopefully.

“I can’t I have to go home now,” says the girl, pointing to the silver shoes she’s wearing. And then the girl vanishes in thin air (so does Jack, but Ozma does not remember to look around for Jack) and Ozma is alone in a field of dead grass again, wishing she could follow where Dorothy went.

It seems her wish is coming true when a gust of wind flies through the grass and kicks up dust and dirt and Ozma feels herself lifted up into the sky. She spreads out her arms (because, oh good, it is a flying dream) when two invisible arms snatch onto her shoulders. Ozma shrieks and oh dear (it’s one of _those_ dreams now) she seems to be both floating and pushed to where she doesn’t want to be again. The hands on her shoulders sink in like the talons of a large bird. She tries to shake herself free.

\- -

Dorothy wakes up to the sensation of thrashing in the sheets again. (Again.) Her famous patience is growing thin with this business of unremembered night terrors.

“Ozma!” she says firmly, pressing softly onto Ozma’s shoulders.

“No! No! Let go of me!” Ozma’s hands swatting at her own shoulders this time.

Dorothy opens the velvet bed curtains and switches on the electric lamp at the bedside. 

Something of the light, the low buzzing sound as it turns on, it catches Ozma’s mind. She jerks back and opens her eyes.

“Oh! Dorothy- I-”

Dorothy tries not to look tired as Ozma comes back to herself. She loves Ozma, she really does. As such she doesn’t like seeing Ozma so frightened like this and it has been happening with more frequency since the beginning of the summer.

“I don’t remember what this one was about,” says Ozma. Dorothy hears the frustration in Ozma’s voice as she tucks her chin under the down comforter.

“Not a thing?” Dorothy asks.

Ozma thinks for a moment, her lower lip jutting out as she thinks. “No, I don’t think so- Oh! Jack might have been there, but I don’t think he was what was bothering me.”

Dorothy takes in this little crumb of information and nods. 

“You can turn off the light,” says Ozma. “I am sorry for waking you up.”

“Don’t be sorry,” sighs Dorothy, “I just wish I could help you somehow.”

Dorothy switches off the lamp and pulls the bed curtains closed.

Ozma tucks into Dorothy’s arms and they both fall back asleep.

\- - 

Sometimes Ozma finds the easiest way to fall asleep when she is wary of falling sleep again is by imagining herself walking somewhere. It doesn’t matter where. She can be on a forest trail, or a winding mountain path, or the Yellow Brick Road, or a city street. She needs to start by looking at her feet. 

What shoes is she wearing? Are they the green and gold dancing shoes she wore to the Scarecrow and Scraps’ party? The slippers she took off before climbing into bed? The mud caked boots worn when she was a boy? No shoes at all? The details don’t matter. She focuses on one foot in front of the other, on any road she wants. Soon she will be walking in her dreams.

\- -

Sometimes the road is a winding one. Ozma is on an adventure today, seeking out the uncharted and hard to find crevices of the kingdom. There’s so much out there she doesn’t know about and the winter snow has melted at last and she can walk about in the spring as she pleases.

The spring air doesn’t sound like spring though. The air is still, absent of the sound of any birds or bugs. The grass is still dying and the leaves are still falling. Oh, yes, because the bees are gone. Jack had told her that but she can’t recall when he had told her that. Thinking on it, she hasn’t seen him for a few weeks and he didn’t say anything about bees then.

But yes, the absence of bees is why the trees are bare. Somehow. Why would the bees impact the leaves and grass though? It makes sense in a dream sort of way and she doesn't dwell on it.

One foot in front of the other. It’s a long walk. Where is she going? She reminds herself to keep walking and the road will show her soon enough.

The road, hm, what should the road be made of? She supposes it should be brown dirt with a rock here and there. It is a nice country road, very agreeable for walking on. The problem is it is getting narrower and narrower and when she looks up to see where it leads she sees that at the horizon line the road seems to be rising up into the sky like a ribbon floating in the wind.

Curious to see where that leads she stops focusing so much on her walking. She flies over it and sees how it twists and turns below her like the squiggle of a river on a map. It loops back into itself and over and over again, a tangle of road until she can see that is is clearly not a road. Just the tangle of blackberry bramble that wraps itself around her body, making it harder and harder to walk forward. Yes, it is very hard to walk anywhere with these vines tugging. She stops and decides to use this opportunity to look for some blackberries, but ah, yes, the bees. Where are those stupid bees?

\- - -

Ozma wakes up. Dorothy’s awake, sitting up on her side of the bed reading something officious looking.

“Did I wake you up?” asks Ozma.

“No, I woke up by myself. You were sayin’ something though.”

“What did I say?”

“Something about bees,” Dorothy chuckles.

“I don’t remember bees,” says Ozma sitting up to lean against the pillows. “But I remember… hm. I remember blackberries.”

“It’s almost that time of year,” smiles Dorothy. She sorts through the paperwork on her lap.

“Mm-hm,” sighs Ozma, thinking now of the picnic planned for later in the month. Maybe towards the beginning of September they’d go.

“What are you looking at?” says Ozma, sliding over to Dorothy’s side of the bed and peering over her shoulder at the papers.

“Oh, boring stuff,” Dorothy yawns showing Ozma the letters from a delegate of somewhere or other full of legal jargon and land proposals. “I need to compose a reply sometime today.”

Ozma nods. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“It’s still early,” says Dorothy, putting the paperwork on the nightstand. “I might try to catch a little more sleep.”

Ozma feels a sinking feeling of guilt as Dorothy slides back under the blankets, worries that Dorothy is awake on her behalf. Dorothy smiles up at her, places a gentle hand on her arm, “Quit your worrying. Darlin’, you’re fine.”

Ozma nods and tries one more time to remember what it was she had dreamt. Something about blackberries, something about bees. It’s nonsensical at best. She lies down on her stomach and blows a frustrated sound into the pillow.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intervention

The walls of Glinda's workshop are the plaster white of all the other rooms of Glinda’s palace, the floor the same red tile, but despite this, Dorothy feels this room is somehow more magical than the others, save perhaps the library. Dorothy has had little reason to be in Glinda’s workshop in the past and she is delighted when the odd opportunity to see inside Glinda's domain presents itself. Against one wall is Glinda’s work bench, an elegant desk more than a work bench really. On its surface are a small organized stacked books, empty glass bottles in a number of colors with mysterious fluid, a neat stack of blank stationary, an inkwell, and a set of writing supplies, the pens and pencils all lined up in a row. The opposite wall is covered entirely by shelves and a row of small drawers like one would find in a carpenter’s shop. The shelves are full of all shapes and sizes of jars, each neatly labeled with a piece of parchment and elegant handwriting. They hold herbs and dried plants and some of them rocks and crystals and some sand and oddly colored powders. (It reminds Dorothy of the wall behind the counter in the town store in Kansas, the rows of mysteries you could only ask for if you had a good reason or the money.) Sun pours through the narrow windows, drying out the flowers and herbs hanging form the ceiling tied, tied by white twine into neat little bundles. They give off a lovely fragrance which combines with the pleasant smell of roses that is coming from the small fire in the fireplace. This is where Ozma had taken magic lessons in the past. Dorothy has never had any desire to learn magic, but she thinks that if she did this would be a very comfortable place to learn it.

“It smells wonderful in here,” says Dorothy. 

“Thank you, Dorothy,” Glinda smiles. She’s pulling down some of the jars from their shelves and setting them on her desk. Using a series of small gold spoons, Glinda scoops out a small portion of each ingredient into a small white gauze sachet.

The containers go back to their designated places and Glinda takes three long sprigs of lavender from a greener bundle hanging in the window. She sits at her workbench and quickly twits them together.

“As I said, unless it is caused by some definite evil magic, I cannot stop Princess Ozma’s dreams, and we have no way of knowing what is causing her dreams if she can not remember,” says Glinda. "I am only doing guesswork." She ties the sachet closed with the chord of lavender. “This pouch is filled with some smells that I suspect she might be familiar with and I suspect they might help her remember what happens in her dreams.”

Glinda places the sachet in Dorothy’s hand. Dorothy looks at it curiously. It does not look unlike something Aunt Em would put in her unmentionables drawer to keep everything smelling fresh.

“Once she remembers then we can help her,” says Dorothy.

“Only if she wants help,” says Glinda. “All the help in the world will not work if it is not wanted.”

“Of course,” agrees Dorothy. She contemplates the sachet for a moment then looks up at Glinda, who is looking down at her with her anticipating eyes. Looking straight into Glinda’s eyes makes Dorothy’s spine shiver but she likes Glinda and asks anyway, “Do you think she wants help?”

“I can read about her actions in the Book of Records, but I think you know her better than anyone.”

Dorothy nods. “I think she is afraid to ask.”

Glinda leans back on the desk and Dorothy can see by the way her eyes flash that she is smiling. “As I said, you know her better than anyone.”

Dorothy doesn't know what to do with what Glinda has just said but nods. She holds up the sachet, "What do I-"

“Have her put it beneath her pillow before she sleeps, see if she remembers anything in the morning. If it makes the dreams worse simply put the lavender alone beneath her pillow for lavender can be used to sooth the mind. There is a chance the lavender will not work for her and may even increase the dreams. Again, this is guesswork on my part. Let her know before hand. If that happens remove the sachet all together, have her pillow case washed as it normally is.”

\- - -

Glinda leads Dorothy out of the workshop and through the cool halls of her palace.

They pause in front of the doors to the library and Glinda faces Dorothy, “I must emphasize the importance of telling her all this beforehand but I trust you will do the right thing, Princess Dorothy.”

Before Dorothy can say anything Glinda’s opened the doors to the library. Dorothy slips the sachet into her pocket and follows Glinda along the most direct path through the maze of towering bookshelves and rolling ladders and white marble staircases. At last they find Ozma deep in the stacks discussing some book with the Wizard.

Ozma snaps the book shut and hastily puts it away on the shelf when she spots them.

The Wizard takes off his top hat and gives a bow to Glinda.

Glinda waits until he is done with his flourishing. “Are you ready Oscar Diggs?”

“Of course,” says the Wizard and follows her out of the library. While Ozma wishes him good luck on his magic lessons, Dorothy glimpses at the book Ozma and the Wizard had been discussing. It is a volume on customs in the United States of America. It seems to be one of many volumes just like it, with different subtitles and edition numbers, but this would not be Glinda’s library if there was not one of every book ever made.

Dorothy finds it odd that Ozma has a question about something pertaining to the United States without consulting her as she normally does. Dorothy thinks that Ozma had been quick to put the book away and is now quick to sweep her away from the bookshelf. It is clear to Dorothy that Ozma is planning something secret- no by the glimmer in Ozma's green eyes it's a surprise, so Dorothy best not pry. Dorothy feels the sachet in the pocket of her cotton dress and trusts that whatever Ozma and the Wizard are up to will come out in time.

\- -

“It smells awful,” says Ozma that night in the green of her room. Her face pinches up as soon as she smells the sachet.

“It looks like it’s mostly lavender,” says Dorothy. “She says it might help you remember your dreams.”

“Wretched stuff, lavender,” grimaces Ozma, “But alright. If it helps.”


End file.
